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UNCLE TOM HEARS OF HIS SALE 



\ 






CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. / i. 

INTKODUCTOKY 

I. A MAN OF HUMANITY ‘ . . . • . 

II. THE MOTHER 

III. THE HUSBAND AND FATHER 

IV. AN EVENING IN UNCLE TOM’s CABIN 

V. SHOWING THE FEELINGS OF LIVING PROPERTY 
ON CHANGING OWNERS 

VI. DISCOVERY . ... . 

VII. THE mother’s STRUGGLE 

VIII. Eliza’s retreat . ... . 

IX. IN WHICH IT APPEARS THAT A SENATOR IS BUT 
A MAN . . 

X. THE PROPERTY IS CARRIED OFF . 

XI. IN WHICH PROPERTY GETS INTO AN IMPROPER 
STATE OF MIND . . . . 

XII. SELECT INCIDENT OF L.\WFUL TRADE 

i 

XIII. THE QUAKER SETTLEMENT 

XIV. EVANGELINE . . . . . 

XV. OF tom’s new MASTER AND VARIOUS OTHER 

MATTER.S . . . . . 

XVI. tom’s mistress and her OPINIONS 

XVII. THE FREE MAN’s DEFENCE 
XVIII. MISS Ophelia’s experiences and opinions 
XIX. MISS Ophelia’s experiences and opinions, 
CONTINUED 


PAGE 

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101 

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115 

124 

140 

149 


(V) 


VI 


Contents. 


CHAPTER. PAGE 

XX. TOPSY ...... 155 

XXI. KENTUCK ..... 169 

XXII. “ THE GRASS WITHERETH THE FEOWER 

FADETH ” ..... 174 

XXIII. HENRIQUE ..... 179 

XXIV. FORESHADOWINGS .... 185 

XXV. THE LITTLE EVANGELIST . . . 189 

XXVI. DEATH ...... 193 

XXVII. “ THIS IS THE LAST OF EARTH ” . . 202 

XXVIII. REUNION ..... 207 

XXIX. THE UNPROTECTED .... 216 

XXX. THE SLAVE WAREHOUSE . . . 221 

XXXI. THE MIDDLE PASSAGE . ' . . . 230 

XXXII. DARK PLACES ..... 234 

XXXIII. CASSY ...... 240 

XXXIV. THE quadroon’s STORY . . . 246 

XXXV. DEGREE AND CASSY . . . .251 

XXXVI. EMMELINE AND CASSY . ' . 255 

XXXVII. LIBERTY ..... 260 

XXXVIII. THE VICTORY ..... 265 

XXXIX. THE STRATAGEM .... 269 

XL. THE MARTYR ..... 279 

XLI. THE YOUNG MASTER . ' . . 285 

XLII. AN AUTHENTIC GHOST STORY . . . 293 

XLIII. RESULTS ..... 299 

XLIV. THE LIBERATOR .... 304 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Frontispiece. 

PAGE 

Portrait of Mrs. Harriet B. Stowe 



xii 

The Shelby Mansion 



7 

“I was looking for Harry” 



9 

“Walk like old Unele Cudjoe ” . 



11 

“What ails you ? ” 



12 

“Isn’t the man mine?” . 



15 

“For my sake, do be careful ” 



17 

“ Pray for me, Eliza” 



18 

Uncle Tom’s Cabin 



19 

Mose> and Pete, and Polly 



28 

“ Only hear that ! ” 



2') 

27 

“ Is he a negro trader ? ” 



“ Her slumbering boy ” . 



81 
O •> 

“I ain’t going” . . • • 


• 

t5.) 

“I believe she’s just done dared out ” 



3G 

“The young imps on the verandah 



37 

39 

“If I only had them ” 



“ Sam made a dive for the reins ” 



41 

“Mother can’t eat ” 


• 

45 

“I shall take the straight road ” 


(vii) 

47 


viii 


Illustrations. 


“She leaped to another cake ” . 

“ Good evening, Mas’r ! ” 

“Why, Loker, how are ye?” 

Sam in the kitchen 

“Senator Bird was drawing ofT his boots” 

“ He drew his breath short ” 

“ I rather think I am ” 

“Tom sat with his Testament on his knee ” 
“It’s a nasty, mean shame” 

“Henry Butler, Oaklands, Shelb}' County” 
“ Where is your wife, George? ” 

“Put us two up togedder ” 

“ I don’t believe it ” 

“ But she only groaned ” 

“I must go on ” . 

“Her husband was sobbing ” 

“What’s little missy’s name?” . 

“ He caught her in Ids arms ” . 

“Lookup, Tom” .... 
“Now, we’re ready 
Arrival at St. Clare’s mansion 
“Puh, you puppy ” 

Miss Ophelia .... 
“Oh, Tom, you look so funny ” 

“ Miss Ophelia stood at her side ” 

“We are not yet in Canada ” 

“But you haven’t got us” 

“Languidly opening and shutting his eyes ” 
“ Oh, my dear young mas’r ” 

“Seated on the kitchen floor” . 

“ I wisht I’s dead ” 

“What funny things 5mu are making” 
Topsy ..... 

“ Poor Topsy, why need you steal ? ” . 


PAGE 

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. 139 
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Illustrations. 


IX 


“ Raising Cain ” . 

“ Well, Chloe, what is it? ” 

“Uncle Tom, I’m going there ” 
“There, you impudent dog” 

“How could you be so cruel to Dodo? 
“No, papa, don’t deceive yourself” 

“I will tell your master ” 

“Law, Missis ! they’re for Miss Eva” 
“I am going to leave you ” 

“She threw herself on the flooi 
“A fatal stab in the side ” 

“ Do plead for me ” 

“All ages, sizes and shades” 

“Where’s your curls, gal ? ” 

“ The auctioneer grows warmer 
“ D’ye see this fist ? ” 

“Trailing wearily behind a rude wagoi 
“Ye see what ye’d get ! ” 

“Touch me, if you dare 1” 

“ Drink all ye want ” 

“You’re afraid of me, Simon” 
“Singing, dancing or fighting” 

“I’ll make ye give out, though ’ 

“Eliza turned to the glass” 


“Then I shall do it ! ” 

“ Walking right up to your bed ” 

“ The hunt is begun ” 

“ Give it to him ! ” 

“ We’s been awful wicked to ye ” 
“Oh, Mas’r George, ye’re too late” 
“Witness, eternal God ” . 

“It stood still by his bed ” 

“ Depend on yourself, my son ” 
“We don’t want to be no freer ” 


PAGE 
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INTRODUCTORY. 


No apology is necessary for placing a carefully-prepared 
edition of “ Uncle Tom’s Cabin ” in the hands of the young 
people of America. The wonderful story, with its striking 
characters, wealth of incident, and lofty tone of benevo- 
lence and humanity, is as full of fascination to-day as in 
the times for which it was written. 

All the old friends are here — Uncle Tom and Eva, Topsy 
and Miss Ophelia, St. Clare and George Harris, Legree and 
Tom Loker. Eliza’s escape over the floating ice with her 
child, the slave hunt in the swamp, the heroic stand of 
the fugitives and their Quaker friends, the horrors of the 
slave market — all the incidents that the author has set in 
such effective contrast are here to delight and instruct. 

“ Uncle Tom’s Cabin ” has been translated into almost 
all the civilized languages of the world, and into some as 
yet only half civilized ; yet it has never been in greater 
demand than at the present time. Of it the poet Long- 
fellow wrote : 

“ It is one of the greatest triumphs recorded in literary 
history, to say nothing of the higher triumph of its moral 
effect.” 

The author’s own words were: 

“ I could not control the story ; it wrote itself! ” 

(xi) 



VW.vv' 



O NE chilly day in P’ebruary, two gentlemen were sit- 
ting in a well-furnished room, in a Kentucky 
toAvn, discussing some subject with great earnest- 
ness. One of the parties, however, did not seem to be a 
gentleman when critically examined. He was short and 
thick-set, with coarse features and a swaggering air; un- 
grammatical and sometimes profane in his speech. His 
companion, Mr. Shelby, had the appearance of a gentle- 
man, and the arrangements of the house indicated easy 
and even opulent circumstances. 

“That is the way I should arrange the matter,” said y.v. 
Shelby. 


7 


8 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“I can’t make trade that wa}"^ — I positively can’t, Mr. 
Shelby,” said the other. 

“Why, the fact is, Haley, Tom is an uncommon fellow; 
he is certainly worth that sum anywhere, — steady, honest, 
capable, manages my whole farm like a clock,” 

“You mean honest, as niggers go,” said Haley. 

“Uo; I miean, really, Tom is a good, steady, sensible, 
pious fellow. He got religion at a camp-meeting, four 
years ago; and I believe be really did get it. I’ve trusted 
him, since then, with everything I have, — money, house, 
liorses, — and let him come and go round the country; and 
I always found him true and square in everything.” 

“Some folks don’t believe there is pious niggers, Shelby,” 
said Haley. 

“Well, Tom’s got the real article, if ever a fellow had,” 
rejoined the other. “Why, last fall, I let him go to Cin- 
cinnati alone, to do business for me, and bring home five 
hundred dollars. I am sorry to part with Tom. You 
ought to let him cover the whole balance of the debt; and 
you would, Haley, if you had any conscience.” 

“Well, I ’ve got just as much conscience as any man in 
the business can afford to keep; but this, ycr see, is a leetle 
too hard on a fellow — a leetle too hard.” The trader 
sighed contemplatively. 

“Well, then, Haley, how will you trade?” said Mr. Shel- 
by, after an uneasy interval of silence. 

“Well, haven’t you a boy or gal that you could throw in 
with Tom?” 

“Hum ! — none that T could well spare. I don’t like part- 
ing with any of my hands, that’s a fact.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


9 



Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, be- 
tween four and five years of ago, entered the room. 

‘‘Come here, Jim Crow,” said Mr. Shelby. “hTow, Jim. 
show this gentleman how you can dance and sing.” The 


“I was looking for Harry.” 

boy commenced one of those wild, grotesque songs common 
among the negroes, in a rich, clear voice. 

“Bravo !” said Haley. 

“Now, Jim, walk like old Uncle Cudjoe, when he has the 
rheumatism,” said his master. 



10 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


Instantly the child assumed the appearance of deformity 
and distortion, as, with his back bumped up, and his 
master’s stick in his hand, he hobbled about the room, his 
childish face drawn into a doleful pucker, and spitting 
from right to left, in imitation of an old man. 

“Xow, Jim,” said his master, “show us how old Elder 
Robbins leads the psalm.” The boy drew his chubby face 
down to a formidable length, and commenced intoning a 
psalm tune through his nose, with imperturbable gravity. 

‘tBravo! uhat a young ’un !” said Haley. “Tell 3mu 
what,” said he, “fling in that chap, and I'll settle the busi- 
ness !” 

At this moment, the door was pushed gently open, and 
a young quadroon woman, apparently about twenty-five,, 
entered the room. 

“Well, Eliza?” said her master. 

“I was looking for Harr\’, please, sir.” 

“Well, take him away, then,” said ]\[r. Shelby. 

“By Jupiter,” said the trader, “there’s an article, now! 
You might make your fortune on that ar gal in Orleans, 
any day.” 

“I don’t want to make my fortune on her,” said ]\Ir 
Shelb}--, dryly. 

“Come, how will you trade about the gal ?” 

“Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold,” said Shelby. “My 
wife would not part with her for her weight in gold.” 

“Ay, ay! women always say such things, ’cause they 
ha’nt no sort of calculation, I reckon.” 

“I tell you, Haley, this must not be spoken of ; I say no. 
and I mean no,” said Shelby. 


Life Among the Lowly. 11 

“Well, you’ll let me have the bo}', though/’ said the 
trader. 

“What on earth can you want with the child?” said 
Shelby. 

“Why, I’ve got a friend that’s going into this yer brand i 
of the business — wants to buy up handsome boys to raise 
for the market. They fetch a good sum.” ' 

“I would rather not sell him,” said Mr. Shelby, thought- 
fully, “but — ” 

“What do you say?” 

“I ’ll think the matter 
over, and talk with my 
wife. Call up this even- 
ing, between six and sev- 
en, and you shall have my 
answer,” said Mr. Shelby, 
and the trader bowed 
himself out of the apart- 
ment. 

Mr. Shelby was a fair 
average kind of man, 
good-natured and kindly, 
and disposed to easy in- 
dulgence of those around 
him, and there had never 
been a lack of anything 
which might contribute 
to the physical comfort 
of the negroes on his es- 
tate. He had, however, 
speculated, largely and quite loosely; had involved himself 



“Walk like old uncle Cudjoe.” 


12 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

deeply, and his notes to a large amount had come into the 
hands of Haley. 

Now, it had happened that Eliza had caught enough of 
the conversation to know that a trader was making offers 
to her inaster for somebody. 

Slie would gladly have stopped at the door to listen, as 
she came out; but her mistress just then calling, she was 
obliged to hasten away, 

‘‘Eliza, girl, Avhat ails you to-day ?” said her mistress. 

Piliza started. “0, mis- 
sis I” she said, raising her 
eyes; then burst into 
tears. 

“Why, Eliza, child! 
what ails you?” said her 
mistress. 

“0! missis, missis,” said 
Plliza, “there’s been a tra- 
der talking with master in 
the parlor! Do you sup- 
pose mas’r would sell my 
Plarry?” And the poor 

creature sobbed convulsively. 

“Sell him! No, you foolish girl ! You know your master 
never deals with those Southern traders, and never means 
to sell any of his servants, as long as they behave well.” 

Reassured by her mistress’ confident tone, Eliza laughed 
at her own fears. 



Lii-fe Among the l.owiy 


IS 


CHAPTEE II. 

THE MOTHER. 

E liza had been brought up by her mistress, from 
girlhood, as a petted and indulged favorite. She 
was a beautiful quadroon and was married to a, 
bright and talented young mulatto man by the name of 
George Harris, a slave on a neighboring estate. 

This young man had been hired out by his master to 
work in a bagging factory, where his adroitness and in- 
genuity caused him to be considered the first hand in the 
place. He had invented a machine for cleaning the hemp, 
which, considering the education and circumstances of the 
inventor, displayed quite as much mechanical genius as 
Whitney’s cotton-gin. N’evertheless, as this young man 
was in the eye of the law not a man, but a thing, all these 
superior qualifications were subject to the control of a 
vulgar, narrow-minded, tyrannical master. This same gen- 
tleman, having heard of the fame of George’s invention, 
took a ride over to. the factor}", to see what this intelligent 
chattel had been about. 

He was shown over the factory by George, who talked so 
fluently, and held himself so erect, that his master began 
to feel consciousness of inferiority. Accordingly, he sud- 


14 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


denly demanclod George’s wages, and announced his inten- 
tion of taking liim home. 

‘^But, Mr. Harris,” remonstrated the manufacturer, 
“isn’t this rather sudden ?” 

“What if it is? — isn’t the man mine?” 

“But, sir, he seems peculiarly adapted to this business.” 

“Dare say he may be; never was much adapted to any- 
thing that I set him about, I’ll be bound.” 

“But only think of his inventing this machine,” inter- 
posed one of the workmen, rather unluckily. 

“0 yes! — a machine for saving work, is it? He’d invent, 
that, I’ll be bound ; let a nigger alone for that, any time. 
They are all labor-saving machines themselves, every one 
of ’em. No, he shall tramp!” 

George stood like one transfixed. He folded his arms, 
tightly pressed in his lips, but a whole voleano of bitter 
feelings burned in his bosom. Fearing that he would make 
matters worse, his employer said: 

“Go with him for the present, George; we’ll try to help 
you yet.” 

George was taken home, and put to the meanest drudg- 
ery of the farm. 

The manufacturer, true to his word, visited Mr. Harris 
a week or two after George had been taken away, and tried 
every possible inducement to lead him to restore him to his 
former employment. 

“You needn’t trouble yourself to talk any longer,” he 
said, doggedly; “T know my own business, sir. It ’s a free 
country, sir; the man ’s mine, and I do what I please with 
him,— that ’s it!” 

And so fell George’s last hope; — nothing before him but 



4 4 


T^Isn’t the mau mine?" 


16 




16 


Undo Toni’s Cabin; or 


a life of toil and drudgery, rendered more bitter by every 
little smarting vexation and indignity which tyrannical 
ingenuity could devise. 


CHAPTER HI. 

THE HUSBAND AND FATHER. 

E liza stood in the verandah, when a hand was laid 
on her shoulder. She turned, and a bright smile 
lighted up her fine eyes. 

‘‘George, is it you? How you frightened me! Well; I 
am so glad you ’s come ! Missis is gone to spend the after- 
noon; so come into my little room, and we’ll have the 
time all to ourselves. 

“How glad I am! — why don’t you smile? — and look at 
Harry — how he grows. Isn’t he beautiful?” said Eliza, 
lifting his long curls and kissing him. 

“I wish he ’d never been born !” said George, bitterly. 
“I wish I ’d never been born myself !” 

“George ! George ! how can you talk so ? What dread- 
ful thing has happened, or is going to happen ? I’m sure 
we ’ve been very happy, till lately.” 

“So we have, dear,” said George. “I have been careful, 
and I have been patient, but it ’s growing worse and worse ; 
flesh and blood can’t bear it any longer.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


17 



“It was only yesterday/’ said George, “as I was busy 
loading stones into a cart that young Mas’r Tom stood 
there, slashing his whip so near the horse that the creature 
was frightened. I asked him to stop, as pleasant as I could, 
— he just kept right on. I begged him again, and then he 


“For my sake, do be careful.” 

turned on me, and began striking me. I held his hand, and 
then he screamed and kicked and ran to his father, and 
told him that I was fighting him. He came in a rage, and 
said he ’d teach me who was my master ; and he tied me to 
a tree, and cut switches for young master, and told him 
2 



18 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


that he might whip me till he was tired; — and he did do 
it! Yesterday he told me that 1 should take Mina for a 
wife, and settle down in a cabin with her, or he would sell 
me down river.’’ 

“Wh}^ — but you were married to me, by the minister, as 
much as if you ’d been a white man 1” said Eliza, simply. 

“Don’t you know a slave can’t be married? There is no 
law in this country for that; I can’t hold you for my wife,. 

if he chooses to part us. 
So, Eliza, my girl,” said 
the husband, mournfully, 
“bear up, now; and good- 
b}'^, for I’m going.” 

“Going, George 1 Going 
where ?” 

“To Canada,” said he; 
and when I’m there. I’ll 
buy you; that’s all the 
hope that’s left us. Y"ou 
have a kind master, that 
won’t refuse to sell you. 
I ’ll buy yen and the boy — God helping me, I will!” 

“0, George, for my sake, do be careful! Don’t do any- 
thing wicked; don’t lay hands on yourself, or anybody 
else! You are tempted too much — too much; but don’t — 
go you must — but go carefully, prudently; pray God to 
help you.” 

“\AY11, then, Eliza, hear my plan. I ’ve got some prep- 
arations made, — and there are those that will help me; 
and, in the course of a week or so, I shall be among the 



“Pray for me, Eliza.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


19 


missing, some day. Pray for me, Eliza ; perhaps the good 
Lord will hear you.” 

“0, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in Him; then 
you won’t do anything wicked.” 

‘‘Well, 'now, good-by,” said George, holding Eliza’s 
hands, and gazing into her eyes, without moving. They 
stood silent ; then there were last words, and sobs, and bit- 
ter weeping, — and the husband and wife were parted. 


CHAPTER IV. 

AN EVENING IN UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 

T he cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building, 
close adjoining to 
“the house,” as 
the negro designates his 
master’s dwelling. In front 
it had a neat garden patch, 
where, every summer, 
strawberries, raspberries, 
and a variety of fruits and 
vegetables, flourished un- 
der careful tending. The 
whole front of it was COV- Uncle Tom’s Cabin, 

ered by a large scarlet bigonia and a native mutiflora 
rose. 



20 


Uncle Tom^s Cabin; or 


The evening meal at the house is over, and Aunt Chloe. 
who presided over its preparation as head cook, has left to 
inferior officers in the kitchen the business of clearing 
away and washing dishes, and come out into her own snug 
territories, to ‘‘get her ole man’s supper.” A round, black, 
shining face is hers. Her whole plump countenance beams 
with satisfaction and contentment from under her well- 
starched checked turban, for Aunt Chloe was acknowl- 
edged to be the best cook in the neighborhood. 

In one corner of the cottage stood a bed, covered neatly 
with a snowy spread; and by the side of it was a piece of 
carpeting, of some considerable size. In the other corner 
was a bed of much humbler pretensions, and evidently de- 
signed for use. 

On a rough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly- 
headed boys, with glistening black eyes and fat shining 
cheeks, were busy in superintending the first walking oper- 
ations of the baby. 

A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs, was drawn 
out in front of the fire, and at this table was seated Uncle 
Tom, Mr. Shelby’s best hand — the hero of our story. He 
was a large, broad-chested, powerfully made man of a full 
glossy black, and a face whose truly African features were 
characterized by an expression of grave and steady good 
sense, united with much kindliness and benevolence. 

He was very busily intent on a slate lying before him, on 
which he was carefully and slowly endeavoring to accom- 
plish a copy of some letters, in which operation he was 


Life Among the Lowly 21 

overlooked by young Mas^r George, a smart, bright boy of 
thirteen. 

‘‘Not that way, Uncle Tom, — not that way,’’ said he. 
briskly, as Uncle Tom laboriously brought up the tail of 
his “g” the wrong side out; “that makes a ‘q,’ you see.” 

“La sakes, now, does it?” said Uncle Tom, looking with 
a respectful, admiring air, as his young teacher flourish- 
ingly scrawled q’s and g’s innumerable for his edification: 
and then, taking the pencil in his big, heavy fingers, he 
jmtiently re-commenced. 

“How easy white folks al’us does things!” said Aunt 
Chloe, regarding young Master George with pride. “The 
way he can write, now ! and read, too 1 and then to come 
out here evenings and read his lessons to us, — it ’s mighty 
interestin’ !” 

“But, Aunt Chloe, I’m getting mighty hungry,” said 
George. “Is n’t that cake in the skillet almost done ?” 

“]\rose done, Mas’r George,” said Aunt Chloe, lifting the 
lid and peeping in, — “browning beautiful — a real lovely 
brown.” 

And with this. Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the 
bake-kettle, and disclosed to view a neatly-baked pound 
cake, of which no city confectioner need to have been 
ashamed. 

“Here you, Mose and Pete I get out de way, you niggers ! 
Get awa}^ Polly, honey, — mammy ’ll give her baby some- 
fin, by and by. Now, Mas’r George, you jest take off dem 
books, and set down now with my old man, and I ’ll take up 
de sausages, and have de first griddle full of cakes on your 
plates in less dan no time.” 

“They wanted me to come to supper iff the house,” said 


22 ITnde Tom’s Cabin; or 

George; “but I knew w'^hat was what too well for that. 
Aunt Chloe.” 

“So you did — so you did, honey,” said Aunt Chloe, heap- 
ing the smoking batter-cakes on his plate; “you know’d 
your old aunty ’d keep the best for you.” 

“Now for the cake,” said Mas’r George, flourishing a 
large knife over the article in question. 

“La bless you, Mas’r George!” said Aunt Chloe, with 
earnestness, catching his arm, “you would n’t be for cuttin’ 
it with dat ar great heavy knife! Smash all down — spile 
all de pretty raise of it. Here, I ’ve got a thin old knife. 
I keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see! comes apart light 
as a feather! Now eat away — you won’t get anything to 
beat dat ar.” 

“Tom Lincon says,” said George, speaking with his 
mouth full, “that their Jinny is a better cook than you.” 

“Dem Lincons an’t much ’count, no way!” said Aunt 
Chloe, contemptuously ; “I mean, set along side our folks.” 

“Well, though, I ’ve heard you sa)^” said George, “that 
Jinny was a pretty fair cook.” 

“So I did,” said Aunt Chloe, — “I may say dat. Good, 
plain, common cookin’, Jinny ’ll do; — make a good pone o’ 
bread, — bile her taters far, — her corn cakes is n’t extra, 
not extra now, Jinny’s corn cakes is n’t, but then they ’s 
far, — but. Lor, come to de higher branches, and what can 
she do? Why, she makes pies — sartin she does; but what 
kinder crust ? Why, I should n’t sleep a wink for a week, 
if I had a batch of pies like dem ar.” 

“I suppose Jinny thinks they are ever so nice,” said 
George. 

“Jinny don’t know. She can’t be spected to know ! Ah ! 



Life Among the Lowly. 23 

^Mas’r George, you does n’t know half your privileges in yer 
family and bringin’ up !” 

“I ’m sure. Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie and pud- 
ding privileges,”' said George. “I mean to ask Tom here, 
some day next week, and you do your prettiest. Aunt 


Chloe, and we ’ll make him stare. Won’t we make him eat 
so he won’t get over it for a fortnight ?” 

“Yes, yes — sartin,” said xVuiit Chloe, delighted; “you ’ll 
see.” 

By this time "Master George had arrived at that pass 
when he really could not eat another morsel and, therefore, 
he was at leisure to notice the pile of woolly heads and glis- 


Mose, and Pete, and Polly. 


24 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

tening 03^68 which were regarding him from the opposite 
corner. 

“Here, you Mose, Pete/’ he said, breaking off liberal 
bits> and throwing it at them; “you want some, do you? 
Come, Aunt Chloe, bake them some cakes.” 

“Well, now, I hopes you ’re done,” said Aunt Chloe, who 
had been busy in pulling out a rude box of a trundle bed; 
“and now, you Mose and you Pete, get into thar ; for we ’s 
goin’ to have the meetin’.” 

“0 mother, we don’t wantcr. We wants to sit up to 
meetin, — meetin’s is so curis. We likes them.” 

“La, Aunt Chloe, shove it under, and let ’em sit up,” 
said Mas’r George, decisively. 

Aunt Chloe, having thus saved appearances, seemed 
highly delighted to push the thing under, saying, as she 
did so, “Well, mebbe ’t will do ’em some good.” 

“What we ’s to do for cheers, now, I declar’ I don’t 
know,” said Aunt Chloe. 

“Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest 
cheer, last week,” suggested Mose. 

“You go ’long! I ’ll boun’ you pulled ’em out; some o’ 
3’our shines,” said Aunt Chloe. 

“Well, it ’ll stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall!” 
said Mose. 

“Den Uncle Peter mns’n’t sit in it, cause he al’a3's 
hitches when he gets a singing. He hitched pretty nigh 
across de room, t’ other night,” said Pete. 

“Well, ole man,” said Aunt Chloe, “you ’ll have to tote 
in them ar bar’ls.” 

Two empty casks were rolled into the cabin, and secured 
from rolling, by stones on each side, boards were laid 


Life Among tlie Lowly. 


25 


across them, which arrangement, together with the turning 
down of certain tubs and pails and the disposing of the 
rickety chairs, at last completed the preparation. 

‘‘Mas’r George is such a beautiful reader, now, I know 
he’ll stay to read for us,” said Aunt Chloe; “’pears like 
’t be so much more interestin’.” 

The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, fro)n 
the old gray-headed patriarch of eighty to the young girl 
and lad of fifteen. A few of the worshippers belonged to 
families hard by, who 
had got permission to at- 
tend, and after a while 
the singing commenced, 
to the evident delight 
of all present. The words 
were sometimes the well- 
known and common 
hymns sung in the 
churches about, and 
sometimes of a wilder, 
more indefinite charac- 
ter, picked up at camp-meetings, and, as they sung, some 
laughed, and some cried, and some clapped hands, or shook 
hands rejoicingly with each other. 

Various exhortations, or relations of experience, fol- 
lowed, and intermingled with the singing, and Mas’r 
George, by request, read the last chapters of Revelation, 
often interrupted by such exclamations as “The sakes 
now !” “Only hear that !” “Jest think on ’t !” “Is all that 
a cornin’ sure enough ?” 

Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters. 




26 


Uncle Toni’s Cabin; or 


in the neighborhood. Having, naturally, a greater breadiii 
and cultivation of mind than his companions, he was 
looked up to with great respect, as a sort of minister among 
them; and the simple, hearty, sincere style of his exhorta- 
tions might have edilied even better educated persons. 
Nothing could exceed the touching simplicity, and child- 
like earnestness, of his prayers, enriched with the language 
of Scripture, which seemed so entirely to have wrought it- 
self into his being, as to have become a part of himself, 
and to drop from his lips unconsciously 


CHAPTER Y. 

SHOWING THE FEELINGS OF LIVING PROPERTY ON 
CH.XNGING OWNERS. 

A fter Mr. and ]Mrs. Shelby had retired to their 
apartment for the night, Mrs. Shelby said, 
carelessly, 

“By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that 
you lugged in to our dinner-table to-day?” 

“Haley is his name,” said Shelby, turning himself rather 
uneasily in his chair. 

“Haley! Who is he, and Avhat may be his business here, 
pray?” 

“Well, he ’s a man that T transacted some business with, 
last time I was at Natchez,” said Mr. Shelby. 



Life Among the Lowly. S7 

“Is he a negro trader?” said INfrs. Shellty, noticing a cer- 
tain embarrassment in her hushand’s manner. 

“Why, my dear, what put that into your head?” said 
Shelby, looking np. 


“Is he a negro trader?” 

“Xothing, — only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a 
great worry, crying and taking on, and said yon were talk- 
ing with a trader, and that she heard him make an offer 
for her boy — the ridiculous little goose!” 


28 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“She did, hey?” said Mr. Shelby. 

“I told Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, “that she was a little 
fool for her pains, and that you never had anything to do 
with that sort of persons. Of course, I knew you never 
meant to sell any of our people, — least of all, to such a 
fellow.” 

“Well, Emily,” said her husband, “so I have always felt 
and said; but the fact is I shall have to sell some of my 
hands.” 

“To that creature ? Yon cannot be serious.” 

“I ’m sorry to say that I am,” said Mr. Shelby. “I ’ve 
agreed to sell Tom.” 

“What! our Tom? — that good, faithful creature! — 
been your faithful servant from a boy ! I can believe now 
that you could sell little Harry, poor Eliza’s only child!” 
said Mrs. Shelby, in a tone between grief and indignation. 

“Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed 
to sell Tom and Harry both.” 

“My dear,” said Mrs. Shelby, “forgive me. I have been 
hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unprepared for this. 
Tom is a noble-hearted, faithful fellow, if he is black. I 
do believe that if he were put to it, he would lay down his 
life for you.” 

“I know it, — I dare say; — but what ’s the use of all this ? 
— I can’t help myself.” 

“Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice? I am willing to 
bear my part of the inconvenience. 0, I have tried to do 
my duty to these poor, simple, dependent creatures. I have 
taught them the duties of the famiW, of parent and child, 
and husband and wife; and how can I bear to have this 
open acknowledgment that we care for no tie, no duty, no 


Life Among the Lowly. 


29 


relation, however sacred, compared with money? I have 
talked with Eliza about her boy — her duty to him as a 
Christian mother, to w^atch over him, pray for him, and 
bring him up in a Christian way ; and now what can I say, 
if you tear him away, and sell him, soul and body, to a pro- 
fane, unprincipled man, just to save a little money?” 

“I 'm sorry you feel so about it, Emily, — indeed I am,” 
said ^Ir. Shelby ; “and I respect your feelings. Haley has 
come into possession of a mortgage, which, if I don’t clear 
off with him directly, will take everything before it. I ’ve 
raked, and scraped, and borrowed, and all but begged, — 
and the price of these two was needed to make up the bal- 
ance, and I had to give them up. Haley fancied the child; 
he agreed to settle the matter that way, and no other. I 
was in his power, and had to do it. If you feel so to have 
them sold, would it be any better to have all sold ?” 

Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, she said : 

“This is God’s curse on slavery! — a bitter, bitter, most 
accursed thing! — a curse to the master and a curse to the 
slave! I was a fool to think I could make anything good 
out of such a deadly evil. It is a sin to hold a slave under 
laws like ours, — I always felt it was, — I always thought so 
when I was a girl, — I thought so still more after I joined 
the church ; but I thought I could gild it over, — I 
thought, by kindness, and care, and instruction, I could 
make the condition of mine better than freedom — fool that 
I was!” 

“I’m sorry, very sorry, Emily,” said Mr. Shelby, “I’m 
sorry this takes hold of you so; but it will do no good. 
The fact is, Emily, the thing’s done; the bills of sale are 

B 


30 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


already signed, and in Haley’s hands; and you must be 
thankful it is no worse.” 

There was one listener to this conversation whom Mr. 
and Mrs. Shelby little suspected. 

Communicating with their apartment was a large closet, 
opening by a door into the outer passage. When Mrs. 
Shelby had dismissed Eliza for the night, her feverish and 
excited mind had suggested the idea of this closet; and 
she had hidden herself there, and, tvith her ear pressed 
close against the crack of the door, had lost not a word 
of the conversation. 

When the voices died into silence, she rose and crept 
stealthily away. Pale and shivering she looked an entirely 
altered being from the soft and timid creature she had 
been hitherto. She moved cautiously along the entry, and 
then turned and glided into her own room, where, on the 
bed, lay her slumbering boy. 

“Poor boy! poor fellow!” said Eliza; “they have sold 
you ! but your mother will save you yet!” 

Then she took a piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote, 
hastily, 

“0, Missis! dear Missis! don’t think me ungrateful, — 
don’t think hard of me, any way, — I heard all you and 
master said to-night. I am going to try to save my boy — 
you will not blame me! God bless and reward you for all 
your kindness !” 

Hastily folding and directing this, she made up a little 
package of clothing for her bo)’’, which she tied with a 
handkerchief firmly round her wmist; and even in the ter- 
rors of that hour, she did not forget to put in the little 
package one or two of his favorite toys. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


31 


“Where are you going, mother?” said he, as she drew 
near the bed, with his little coat and cap. 

“Hush, Harr}^” she said; “musn’t speak loud, or they 
will hear us. A wicked man was coming to take little 
Harry away from his mother, and carry him Vay off in 
the dark ; but mother won’t let him — she’s going to put on 
her little boy’s cap and coat and run off with him, so the 
ugly man can’t catch him.” 



“Her slumbering boy.” 

Saying these words, she dressed the child, and taking 
him in her arms, she glided noiselessly out, wrapping a 
shawl close round her child, as, perfectly quiet with vague 
terror, he clung round her neck. 

Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, rose, with a low 
growl, as she came near. She gently spoke his name, and 
the animal instantly prepared to follow her. A few min- 


32 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


utes brought them to the window of Uncle Tom’s cottage, 
and Eliza, stopping, tapped lightly on the window-pane. 

The prayer meeting at Uncle Tom’s had been protracted 
to a very late hour, and although it was now between 
twelve and one o’elock, he and his worthy helpmeet were 
not yet asleep. 

“Good Lord! what’s that?” said Aunt Chloe, starting 
up and hastily drawing the curtain. “My sakes alive, if 
it ain’t ‘Lizy! Get on your clothes, old man, quick! — 
there’s old Bruno, too, a pawin’ round; what on airth! 
I’m gwine to open the door.” 

The door flew open, and the light of the tallow candle, 
which Tom had hastily lighted, fell on the haggard face 
and dark, wild eyes of the fugitive. 

“Lord bless you ! — I’m skeered to look at ye, ’Lizy ! Are 
ye tuck sick, or wkat’s come over ye?” 

“I’m running away — carrving off my child — Master sold 
him!” 

“Sold him?” echoed both. 

“Yes, sold him!” said Eliza, firmly; “I heard Master tell 
Missis that he had sold my Harry, and you. Uncle Tom, 
both, to a trader; and that the man was to take possession 
to-day.” 

Tom had stood, during this speech like a man in a 
dream. Slowly and graduall}'’, as its meaning came over 
him, he collapsed, rather than seated himself, on his old 
chair, and sunk his head down upon his knees. 

“The good Tiord have pity on us!” said Aunt Chloe. 
“0! it don’t seem as if it was true! What has he done, 
that Mas’r should sell him ? 

“Well, old man!” added Aunt Chloe, “why don’t you go 



3 


33 


I ain’t going. Let Eliza go 







34 


Undo Tom’s C.nbin; or 


too ? There’s time for ye, — be off with ’Lizy, — you’ve got 
a pass to come and go any time.” 

Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully but 
quietly around, and said, 

“No, no — I an’t going. Let Eliza go — it’s her right ! I 
wouldn’t be the one to say no — ’tan’t in natur for her to 
stay; but you heard what she said! If I must be sold, or 
all the people on the place, and everything go to rack, why, 
let me be sold. Mas’r always found me on the spot — he 
always will. I never have broke trust, nor used my pass 
no ways contrary to my word, and I never will. It’s better 
for me alone to go, than to break up the place and sell 
all.” ' 

“And now,” said- Eliza, “I saw my husband only this 
afternoon, and I little knew then what was to come. They 
have pushed him to the very last standing-place, and he 
told me, to-day, that he was going to run away. Do try, 
if you can, to get word to him. Tell him how I went, and 
why I went; and tell him I’m going to try and find Canada. 
You must give my love to him. and tell him, if I never see 
him again, to be as good as he can, and try and meet me in 
the kingdom of heaven.” 

“Call Bruno in there,” she added. “Shut the door on 
him, poor beast ! He mustn’t go with me !” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


35 


: CHAPTER VI. 

DISCOVERY. 

M r. and Mrs. Shelby slept somewhat later than usual, 
the ensuing morning. 

“I wonder what keeps Eliza,” said Mrs. 
Shelby, after giving her hell repeated pulls, to no purpose. 
Just then the door opened, and a colored boy entered. 
“Andy,” said his mistress, “step to Eliza’s door, and tell 
her I have rung for her three times.” 

Andy soon returned, with eyes very wide in astonish- 
ment. 

“Lor, Missis ! ’Lizy’s drawers is all open, and her things 
all lying every which way; and I believe she’s just done 
dared out!” 

“Then she suspected it, and she’s off!” said Mr. Shelby. 
“The Lord be thanked !” said Mrs. Shelby. “I trust she 
is.” 

There was great running and ejaculating, and opening 
and shutting of doors for about a quarter of an hour, and 
when, at last, Haley appeared, he was saluted with the 
bad tidings on every hand. The young imps on the ver- 
andah were not disappointed in their hope of hearing him 
“swar,” which he did with a fluency and fervency which 
delighted them all amazingly, as they ducked and dodged 



36 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

hither and thither, to be out of the reach of his riding 
whip, and, all whooping off together, they tumbled, in a 
pile of immeasurable giggle, on the withered turf under 


“I believe she’s just done dared out.” 

the verandah, where they kicked up their heels and shout- 
ed to their full satisfaction. 

‘Tf I only had them!” muttered Haley, between his 
teeth. 

“But you ha’nt got ’em, though!” said Andy, with a 


Life Among the Lowly. 


37 


triumphant flourish, and making a string of indescrihahle 
mouths at the unfortunate trader’s back, when he was 
fairly beyond hearing. 

“I sa}^ now, Shelb}"^, this yer’s a most extro’rnary busi- 
ness I’’ said Haley, as he abruptly entered the parlor. “It 
seems that gal’s off, with her young un.” 

“Sir,” said Mr. Shelby, “if you wish to communicate 
with me, you must observe something of the decorum of a 
gentleman. Yes, sir; I regret to say that the young wo- 



“The young imps on the verandah.” 


man, excited by overhearing, or having reported to her, 
something of this business, has taken her child in the 
night, and made off, but I shall feel bound to give you 
every assistance, in the use of horses, servants, etc., in the 
recovery of your property. So, in short, Haley,” said he, 
suddenly dropping from the tone of dignified coolness to 
his ordinary one of easy frankness, “the best way for you 
is to keep good-natured and eat some breakfast, and we 
will then see what is to be done.” 


38 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


Toni’s fate was the topic in every moutli, everywhere; 
and nothing was done in the house or in the field, but lo 
discuss its probable results. Eliza’s flight also added to 
the general excitement. 

Black Sam, as he was commonly called, from his being 
about three shades blacker than any other son of ebony 
on the place, was revolving the matter profoundly. 

“It’s an ill wind dat blows nowhar, — dat ar a fact,” said 
Sam. “Yes, it’s an ill wind blows nowhar,” he repeated. 
“Now, dar, Tom’s down — wal, course der’s room for some 
nigger to be up — and why not dis nigger? — dat’s de idee. 
Tom, a ridin’ round de country — boots blacked — pass in 
his pocket — all grand as Cuffee — who but he? Now, why 
shouldn’t Sam? — dat’s what I want to know.” 

“Halloo, Sam — 0 Sam! Mas’r wants Bill and Jerry 
geared right up; and you and I’s to go with Mas’r Haley, 
to look arter her.” 

“Good, now I dat’s de time o’ day !” said Sam. “It’s Sam 
dat’s called for in dese yer times. He’s de nigger. See if 
I don’t cotch her, now ; Mas’r ’ll see what Sam can do 1” 

“Ah! but Sam,” said Andy, “you’d better think twice; 
for Missis don’t want her cotched, and she’ll be in yer 
wool.” 

“High!” said Sam, opening his eyes. “How you know 
dat ?” 

“Heard her say so, my own self, dis blessed mornin’. 
She sent me to see why ’Lizy didn’t come to dress her; and 
when I tolled her she was off, she jest ris up, and ses she, 
‘The Lord be praised.’ ” 

“Now, sartin I’d a said that Missis would a scoured the 
’varsal world after ’Lizy,” added Sam, thoughtfully. 







40 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“^So she would,” said Andy; ‘‘but can’t ye see through a 
ladder, ye black nigger? Missis don’t want dis yer Mas’r 
Haley to get ’Lizy’s boy; dat’s de go!” 

Sam, after a while appeared with Bill and Jerry in a 
full canter, and adroitly throwing himself off before they 
had any idea of stopping, he brought them up alongside 
of the horse-post like a tornado. Haley’s horse, which was 
a skittish young colt, winced, and bounced, and pulled 
hard at his halter. 

“Ho, ho!” said Sam, “skeery, ar 5^0? I’ll fix ye now!” 
said he, and then on pretence of adjusting the saddle, he 
adroitly slipped under it a sharp little beech nut, in such 
a manner that the least Aveight brought upon the saddle 
would annoy the animal, Avithout leaAung any perceptible 
mark. * 

“Dar !” he said, rolling his eyes with an approving grin ; 
“me fix ’em !” 

At this moment Mrs. Shelby appeared. 

“Why have you been loitering so, Sam?” 

“Lord bless you. Missis!” said Sam, “horses won’t be 
cotched all in a minit.” 

“Well, Sam, you are to go Avith Mr. Haley, to shoAv him 
the road, and help him. Be careful of the horses, Sam; 
you knoAV Jerry Avas a little lame last week; don’t ride 
them too fast.” 

“Let dis child alone for dat !” said Sam, rolling up his 
eyes with a volume of meaning. 

“Noav, Andy,” said Sam, “you see I Avouldn’t be ’tall sur- 
prised if dat ar gen’leraan’s critter should gib a fling, by 
and by, AAdien he comes to be a gettin’ up. You knoAA% 
Andy, critters Avill do such things. A^er gee,” added Sam, 


Life Among the Lowly. 


41 


“yer see, Andy, if any such thing should happen as that 
^Mas’r Haley’s horse should begin to act contrary, and cut 
up, you and I Jist lets go of our’n to help him, and we’ll 
help him — oh yes!” 

At this instant, Haley appeared on the verandah. “Well, 
boys,” said he, “look alive now; we must lose no time.” 

“Xot a bit of him, Mas’r!” said Sam, putting Haley’s 



“Sam made a dive for the reins.” 


rein in his hand, and holding his stirrup, Avhile Andy was 
untying the other two horses. 

The instant Haley touched the saddle, the mettlesome 
creature bounded from the earth with a sudden spring, 
that threw his master sprawling, some feet off, on the soft, 
dry turf. Sam made a dive for the reins, but only suc- 
ceeded in brushing his hat into the horse’s eyes, which only 
made matters worse. He overturned Sam, and, giving a 
snort, flourished his heels in the air, and pranced away. 


4:2 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


followed by Bill and Jerry, whom Andy had not failed to 
let loose, according to contract. 

Haley ran up and down, and cursed and stamped miscel- 
laneously. Mr. Shelby in vain tried to shout directions 
from the balcony, and .Mrs. Shelby from her chamber win- 
dow alternately laughed and wondered. 

At last, about twelve o’clock, Sam appeared triumphant, 
mounted on Jerry, with Haley’s horse by his side. 

“He’s cotched!” he exclaimed, triumphantly. “If ’t 
hadn’t been for me, they might a burst theirselves, all on 
’em; but 1 cotched him!” 

“You !” growled Haley, in no amiable mood. “If it 
hadn’t been for you, this never would have happened.” 

“Lord bless us, Mas’r” said Sam, in a tone of the deep- 
est concern, “and me that has been racin’ and chasin’ till 
the sweat jest pours off me!” 

“Well, well!” said Haley, “you’ve lost me near three 
hours, with your cursed nonsense. Xow let’s be off, and 
have no more fooling.” 

Mrs. Shebly now came forward, and, courteously ex- 
pressing her concern for Haley’s accident, pressed him to 
stay to dinner, saying that the cook should bring it on the 
table immediately; and Haley allowed himself to be 
pursuaded. 

“Did yer see him, Andy? did yer see him?” said Sam, 
when he had got fairly beyond the shelter of the barn. 
“0 Lor, if it warn’t as good as a meetin’, now, to see him 
a dancin’ and kickin’. Lor, Andy, I think I can see him 
now.” And Sam and Andy leaned up against the barn, 
and laughed to their hearts’ content. 


Life x\mong the Lowly. 


43 


CTTAPTErv VII. 

THE mother's struggle. 

I T is impossible to conceive of a human creature more 
wholly desolate and forlorn than Eliza, when she 
• turned her footsteps from Uncle Tom’s cabin. 

Her husband’s suffering and dangers, and the danger of 
her child, all blended in her mind, Avith a confused and 
stunning sense of the risk she Avas running, in leaving the 
only home she had ever knoAAm, and cutting loose from the 
protection of a friend whom she loved and revered. 

But stronger than all was maternal love, Avronght into a 
])aroxysm of frenzy by the near approach of a fearful dan- 
ger. 

The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she 
trembled at the sound; every quaking leaf and fluttering 
shadow sent the blood backward to her heart, and quick- 
ened her footsteps, AvUile from her pale lips burst forth, 
in frequent ejaculations, the pra3'er to a Friend above — 
*^Lord, help ! Lord, save me !” 

On she AA'ent, leaving behind one familiar object after 
another, till daylight found her many miles from all fa- 
miliar objects upon the highAvay. 

After a Avhile, they came to a thick patch of woodland, 
and, sitting down behind a large rock which concealed 


V 


44 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin ; or 


iliciii from the road, she gave the cliild a breakfast out of 
lier little package. The boy wondered and grieved that 
she could not eat, and tried to wedge some of his cake into 
lier mouth. 

“No, no, Harry darling! mother can’t eat till you are 
safe! We must go on — on — till we come to the river!” 

She stopped at noon at a neat farmhouse, to rest her- 
self, and buy some dinner for her child and self; for, as 
the danger decreased with the distance, the tension of the 
nervous system lessened, and she found herself both weary 
and hungry. 

An hour before sunset, she entered a village by the Ohio 
river, weary and footsore, but still strong in heart. 

It was now early spring, and the river was swollen and 
turbulent. The narrow channel which swept round the 
bend was full of ice, piled one cake over another, thus 
forming a temporary barrier to the descending ice, which 
lodged, and formed' a great, undulating raft, filling up the 
whole river, and extending almost to the Kentucky shore. 

Eliza stood, for a moment, contemplating this, and then 
turned into a small public house on the bank, to make a 
few inquiries. 

‘Tsn’t there any ferry or boat, that takes people over 
the river, now?” she said. 

“Ko, indeed !” said the woman ; “the boats has stopped 
running, but there’s a man a piece down here, that’s going 
over with some truck this evening, if he durs’ to; he’ll be 
in here to supper to-night, so you’d better set down and 
wait. That’s a sweet little fellow,” added the wcman, of- 
fering him a cake. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


45 


“Poor fellow! he isiPt used to walking, and I’ve hurried 
him on so,” said Eliza. 

“Well, take him into this room,” said the woman. 


Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner 



"Mother can’t eat until you are safe.” 


should be hurried onto table, and although the order was 
fairly given out in Haley’s hearing, and carried to Aunt 
Chloe by at least half a dozen juvenile messengers, an im- 
pression seemed to reign among the servants generally 
that ]\Iissis would not be particularly disobliged by delay; 





Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


i6 

and it was wonderful what a number of counter accidents 
occurred constantly, to retard the course of things. 

Finally, news was brought into the kitchen that “Mas’r 
Haley was mighty oneasy, and that he couldn’t sit in his 
cheer no ways, but was a walkin’ and stalkin’ to the win- 
ders and through the porch.” 

The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the par- 
lor. 

“Tom,” said his master, kindly, “I want you to notice 
that I give this gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dol- 
lars if you are not on the spot when he wants you; he’s 
going to-day to look after his other business, and you can 
have the day to yourself. Co anywhere you like, boy.” 

“Thank you, Mas’r,” said Tom. 

“And mind yerself,” said the trader, “and don’t come it 
over your master with any o’ yer nigger tricks!” 

“Mas’r,” said Tom, “I was jist eight years old when ole 
Missis put you into my arms, and you wasn’t a year old. 
‘Thar,’ says she, ‘Tom, that’s to be your young Mas’r; take 
good care on him,’ says she. And now I jist ask you, Mas’r, 
have I ever broke word to you, or gone contrary to you, 
’specially since I was a Christian ?” 

“My good boy,” said he, “the Lord knows you say but 
the truth; and if I was able to help it, all the world 
shouldn’t buy you.” 

“And sure as I am a Christian woman,” said Mrs. Shel- 
by, “you shall be redeemed as soon as I can any way bring 
together means. Sir,” she said to FTaley, “take good ac- 
count of who you sell him to, and let me know.” 

At two o’clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to 


Life Among the Lowly. 


47 



the posts, apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by 
the scamper of the morning. 

“I shall take the straight road to the river,” said Haley. 

“Sartin,” said Sam, “dat"s de idee. Mas’r Haley hits 
de thing right in de middle. Now, der’s two roads to de 
river, — de dirt road and der pike, — which Mas’r mean to 


“I shall take the straight road.” 

take ? Cause,” added Sam, ‘‘I’d rather be ’elined to ’mag- 
ine that ’Lizy ’d take de dirt road, bein’ it’s the least 
traveled.” 

“She would naturally go a lonesome way,” said Haley. 
“Dar an’t no sayin’,” said Sam; “gals is peeular; they 



18 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


never does nothin’ ye thinks they will. Now, my private 
’pinion is, ’Lizy took der dirt road; so I think we’d better 
take de straight one.” 

This profound view did not seem to dispose Haley to the 
straight road; and he announced decidedly that he should 
take the other, and asked Sam when they would come to it. 
little piece ahead,” said Sam. 

The road, in fact, was an old one, formerly a thorough- 
fare to the river, hut abandoned for many years. It was 
open for about an hour’s ride, and after that it was cut 
across by various farms and fences. Sam knew this fact 
perfectly well, hut rode along with an air of dutiful sub- 
mission. 

At last they came to a barn standing squarely across the 
road, and it was evident that their journey in that direc- 
tion was ended. 

It was all too true to he disputed, and all three faced to 
the right about, and returned to the highway. 

Because of all these delays, it was an hour after Eliza 
had laid her child to sleep in the village tavern before the 
party came riding into the same place. Eliza was standing 
by the window, looking out in another direction, when 
Sam’s quick eye caught a glimpse of her. Haley and 
Andy were two yards behind. At this crisis, Sam con- 
trived to have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud ejacu- 
lation, which startled her at once; she drew suddenly back, 
and the whole train swept by the window, round to the 
front door. 

A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one 
moment to Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the 
river. She caught her child, and sprang down the stops 





50 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


towards it. The trader caught a full glimpse of her, just 
as she was disappearing down the bank; and throwing 
himself from his horse, and calling loudly on Sam and 
Andy, he was after her like a hound after a deer, A mo- 
ment brought her to the water’s edge. Eight on behind 
they came; and, nerved with strength such as God gives 
only to the desperate, with one wild cry and flying leap, 
she vaulted sheer over the turbid current by the shore, on 
to the raft of ice beyond. It was a desperate leap — im- 
possible to anything but madness and despair; and Haley, 
Sam and Andy, instinctively cried out, and lifted up their 
hands, as she did it. 

The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted 
pitched and creaked^ as her weight came on it, but she 
stayed there not a moment. With wild cries and desperate 
energy she leaped to another and still another cake; — 
stumbling — leaping — slipping — springing upwards again! 
Her shoes were gone — her stockings cut from her feet — 
while blood marked every step; but she saw nothing, felt 
nothing, till dimly, as in a dream, she saw the Ohio side, 
and a man helping her up the bank. 

“Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar!” said the man. 

Eliza recognized the voice and face of a man who owned 
a farm not far from her old home. 

“0, Mr. Symmes! — save me — do save me — do hide me!” 
said Eliza. 

“Wh}'-, what’s this?” said the man! 

“My child! — this boy! — he’d sold him! There is his 
Mas’r,” said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. “0, Mr. 
Symmes, you’ve got a little boy!” 

“So I have,” said the man, as he roughly, but kindly, 


51 


Life Among the Lowly, 


drew lier up the steep bank. ‘‘Besides, you’re a riglit brave 
gal. 1 like grit, wherever I see it.”. 

When they had gained the top of the bank, the man 
paused. 

“I’d be glad to do something for ye,” said he; “but then 
thar’s nowhar I could take ye. The" best I can do is to tell 
ye to go thar,” said he, pointing to a large white house 
which stood by itself, off the main street of the village. 



'Good evening, Mas’r! 


“(to thar; they’re kind folks. Thar’s no kind o’ danger 
but they’ll help you, — they’re up to all that sort o’ thing.” 

“The Lord bless you!” said Eliza earnestly. 

Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the 
scene, till Eliza had disappeared up the bank, when he 
turned a blank, inquiring look on Sam and Andy. 

“That ar was a tol’able fair stroke of business,” said 
Sam. 

“You laugh I” said the trader, with a growl. 


52 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“Lord bless 3mu, Mas’r, I couldn’t help it, now,” said 
Sam, giving way to the long pent-up delight of his soul. 
“She looked so curi’s, a leapin’ and springin’ — ice a crack- 
in — and only to hear her, — plump! ker chunk! ker splash! 
Spring! Lord! how she goes it!” and Sam-and Andy 
laughed till the tears rolled down their cheeks, 

“I’ll make ye laugh t’other side yer mouths!” said the 
trader, laying about their heads with his riding whip. 

Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were 
on their horses before he was up, 

“Good-evening, Mas’r!” said Sam, with much gravity. 
“I berry much spect Missis be anxious ’bout Jerry. Mas’r 
Haley Avon’t want us no longer. ]\Iissis Avouldn’t hear of 
our ridin’ the critters over ’Lizy’s bridge to-night;” and, 
with a poke into Andy’s ribs, he started otf, followed by 
the latter, at full speed. 


CHAPTEB VIII. 

I LIZA made her desperate retreat across the river 
just in the dusk of twilight. The gray mist of 
evening, rising slowly from the river, enveloped 
her as she disappeared up the bank, and the swollen cur- 
rent and floundering masses of ice presented a hopeless 
barrier between her and her pursuer. Haley therefore 


Tiife Among the Lowly. 


53 


slowly and discontentedly returned to the little tavern, 
to ponder further what was to he done. The woman 
showed him into a little parlor and here Haley sat down 
to meditate on his ill fortune. 

Soon he was startled by the loud voice of a man who was 
dismounting at the door. He hurried to the window. 

“By the land ! if this yer an’t the nearest, now, to what 
Pve heard folks call Providence,” said Haley. “I do 
b’lieve that ar’s Tom Loker.” 

Haley hastened out. Standing by the bar, in the corner 
of the room, was a brawny, muscular man, full six feet in 
height, and broad in proportion. , He was dressed in a coac 
of buffalo-skin, made with the hair outward, which gave 
him a shaggy and fierce -appearance, perfectly in keeping 
with the whole air of his physiognomy. In the head and 
face every organ and lineament expressive of brutal and 
unhesitating violence was in d state of the highest possible 
development. He was accompanied by a traveling com- 
panion, in many respects an exact contrast to himself. He 
was short and slender, lithe and cat-like in his motions, 
and had a peering mousing expression about his keen black 
e3^es, with which every feature of his face seemed sharp- 
ened into sympathy; his thin, long nose ran out as if it 
was eager to bore into the nature of things in general; his 
sleek, thin, black hair was stuck eagerly forward, and all 
his motions and evolutions expressed a dry, cautious acute- 
ness. 

“AVal, now% who’d a thought this ^'^er luck ’d come to 
me? Why, Loker, how are ye?” said Haley, coming for- 
ward, and extending his hand to the big man. 

“You, Haley,” was the reply. “What brought yoil here ?” 


54 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“I sa}'', Tom, this yer’s the luckiest thing in the world. 
I’m in an awful hobble, and you must help me out.” 

‘Uike enough !” grunted his acquaintance. 

“You’ve got a friend here?” said Haley, “partner, per- 
haps ?” 

“Yes, I have. Here, Marks! here’s that ar feller that 
I was in with in Yatchez.” 

“Shall be pleased with his acquaintance,” said Marks, 
“Mr. Haley, I believe?” 

“The same, sir,” said Haley. “And now, gentlemen, 
seein’ as we’ve met so happily, I think I’ll stand up to a 
small matter of a treat in this here parlor. So, now, old 
coon,” said he to the man at the bar, “get us hot water, 
and sugar, and cigars, and plenty of the real stuff, and 
we’ll have a blow-out.” 

Haley began a pathetic recital of his peculiar troubles. 
Loker shut up his mouth, and listened to him with gruff 
and surly attention. Marks gave the most earnest heed to 
the whole narrative. “So, then, ye ’r fairly sewed up, an’t 
ye?” he said. 

“Now, Mr. Haley,” continued Marks, “what is it? — you 
want us to undertake to catch this yer gal?” 

“The gal’s no matter of mine, — she’s Shelby’s; it’s only 
the boy, I was a fool for buying the monkey !” 

“You’re generally a fool!” said Tom, gruffly. 

“Come, now, Loker, none of your huffs,” said Marks; 
“you see, Mr. Haley’s a puttin’ us in a way of a good job, 
I reckon. This ver gal, Mr. Haley, how is she? what is 
she?” 



Life Among the Lowly. 55 

“Wal ! white and handsome— well brought up. I’d a gin 
Slielhy eight hundred or a thousand, and then made well 
on her.” 

“White and handsome — well brought up!” said Marks, 


“Why, Loker, how are ye?” 

his sharp eyes, nose and mouth all alive with enterprise. 
“Look here, now, Loker, we’ll do a business here on our 
own account; — we does the catchin’; the bo}’’, of course. 


56 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


goes to Mr. Haley, — we takes the gal to Orleans to specu- 
late on. An’t it beautiful?” 

Toni Loker, who was a man of slow thoughts and move- 
ments, here interrupted ]\Iarks by bringing his heavy fist 
down on the table, so as to make all ring again. “It’ll do !” 
he said. 

“But, gentlemen, an’t I to come in for a share of the 
profits ?” said Haley. 

“An’t it enough we catch the boy for ye ?” said Loker. 
“What do ye want ?” 

“Wal,” said Haley, “if I gives you the job, it’s worth 
something, — say ten per cent, on the profits, expenses 
paid.” 

“Xow,” said Loker, with a tremendous oath, and strik- 
ing the table with his heavy fist, “don’t I know you, I)an 
Haley? Don’t you think to come it over me! Suppose 
Clarks and I have taken up the catchin’ trade, jest to ’com- 
modate gentlemen like you, and get nothin’ for ourselves? 
— Not by a long chalk ! we’ll have the gal out and out, and 
you keep quiet, or, ye see, we’ll have both. But it an’t all 
I want, by a long jump,” added Tom. “You ’ve got to fork 
over fifty dollars, flat down, or this child don’t start a peg. 
T know yer. If we get the job, and it pays. I’ll hand it 
back; if we don’t, it’s for our trouble, — that’s far, an’t it, 
Harks ?” 

“Certainly, certainly,” said Marks. 

Marks had got from his pocket a greasy pocket-book, 
and taking a long paper from thence, he sat down, and 
fixing his keen black eyes on it, began mumbling over irs 
contents. 

“I ’m jest a runnin’ over our business, to see if we can 


Life Among the Lowly. 


57 


take up this yer handil}^/’ said he. ‘‘Ther’s three on ’em 
easy cases, ’cause all you ’ve got to do is to shoot ’em, or 
swear they is shot. Them other cases,” he said, folding the 
paper, “will bear putting off a spell.” 

“I s’pose yoii’ve got good dogs,” said Haley. 

“First rate,” said Marks. “But what’s the use? you 
han’t got nothin’ o’ hers to smell on.” 

“Yes, I have,” said Haley, triumphantly. “Here’s her 
shawl she left on the bed in her hurry; she left her bon- 
net, too.” 

“That ar’s lucky,” said Loker, “fork over, and as the 
man ’s come with the boat, we ’ll be off.” 

After exchanging a few words of further arrangement, 
Haley, vdth visible reluctance, handed over the fifty dollars 
to Tom, and the worthy trio separated for the night. 

While this scene was going on at the tavern, Sam and 
Andy, in a state of high glee, pursued their way home. 
When they arrived there, Mrs. Shelby called out: 

“Ts that you, Sam ? Where are they?” 

“Mas’r Haley’s a-restin’ at the tavern; he’s drelful 
fatigued, Missis.” 

“And Eliza, Sam ?” 

“Wal, she ’s clear ’cross Jordan. As a body may say, in 
the land o’ Canaan.” 

“Why, Sam, what do you mean?” said Mrs. Shelby, 
breathless, and almost faint, as the possible meaning of 
these words came over her. 

“Wal, i\lissis, de Lord he persarves His own. ’Lizy ’s 
done gone over the river into ’Hio, as ’markably as if the 
Lord took her over in a charrit of fire and two bosses.” 


58 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“Come up here, Sam/’ said Mr. Shelby, “and tell your 
mistress what she wants. Where is Eliza, if you know ?” 

“Wal, Mas’r, I saw her, with my own eyes, a crossin’ 
on the floatin’ ice. She crossed most ’markably; it was n’t 
no less nor a miracle; and I saw a man help her up the 
’Hio side, and then she was lost in the dusk.” 

“Sam, crossing on floating ice is n’t so easily done,” said 
Mr. Shelby. 

“Easy ! could n’t nobody a done it, widout the Lord. 
Why, now,” said Sam, “ ’ was just dis yer way. Mas’r 
Haley, and me, and Andy, we comes up to de little tavern 
by the river, and I rides a leetle ahead, — (I’s so zealous to 
be a cotchin’ ’Lizy, that I couldn’t hold in, no way), — and 
when I comes by the tavern wdnder, sure enough, there she 
was right in plain sight, and dey diggin’ on behind. Wal, 
I loses off my hat, and sings out nuff to raise the dead. 
Course ’Lizy she bars, and she dodges back, when Mas’r 
Haley he goes past the door; and then, I tell 3'e, she dared 
out de side door; she went down the river bank; — Mas’r 
Haley he seed lier, and yelled out, and him, and me, and 
Andy, we took arter. Down she come to the river, and 
thar was the current running ten feet wide by the shore, 
and over t’ other side ice a saAvin’ and a jiggling up and 
down, kinder as ’t were a great island. AVe come right be- 
hind her, and I thought my soul he ’d got her sure enough, 
— when she gin such a screech as I never hearn, and thar 
she was, clar over t’ other side the current, on the ice, and 
then on she Avent, a screeching and a jumpin’, — the ice 
AA^ent crack! c’Avallop! cracking! chunk! and she a boundin’ 
like a buck ! Lord, the spring that ar gal ’s got in her an’t 
common, I’m 0’ ’pinion.” 


59 


Tiife Among the Lowly. 

Mrs. Shelby sat perfectly silent, pale with excitement, 
while Sam told his story. 

‘‘God be praised, she isn’t dead!” she said; “but where 
is the poor child now ?” 

“De Lord will pervide,” said Sam, rolling up his eyes 
piousl3^ ‘‘Now, if ’t had n’t been for me to-day, she ’d a 
been took a dozen times. Warn’t it I started off de horses, 
dis yer mornin’, and kept ’em chasin’ till nigh dinner time? 
And did n’t I car’ Mas’r Haley nigh live miles out of de 
road, dis evening, or else he ’d a come up with ’Lizy as easy 
as a dog arter a coon ? These yer ’s all providences.” 

“They are a kind of providence that you ’ll have to be 
pretty sparing of. Master Sam. I allow no such practices 
with gentlemen on my place,” said Mr. Shelby, with as 
much sternness as he could command. 

“Mas’r ’s quite right, — quite; it was ugly on me. I ’m 
sensible of dat ar; but a poor nigger like me ’s ’mazin’ 
tempted to act ugly sometimes.” 

“Well, Sam,” said Mrs. Shelby, “as you appear to have 
a proper sense of your errors, you may go now and tell 
Aunt Chloe she may get you some of that cold ham that 
was left of dinner to-day. You and Andy must be hungry.” 

“Missis is a heap too good for us,” said Sam, making 
his bow with alacrity, and departing. 

“I ’ll speechify these yer niggers,” said Sam to himself, 
“now I ’ve got a chance. Lord, I ’ll reel it off to make ’em 
stare !” 

The kitchen was full of all his compeers, who had hur- 
ried and crowded in, from the various cabins, to hear the 
termination of the day’s exploits. 

“Yer see, fellow-conn trmen,” said Sam, elevatir /'''■* 


60 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


turkey’s le", with energy, “yer see now, what dis yer chile’s 
up ter, for ’fendin’ yer all, — yes, all on yer. For him as 
tries to get one o’ our people, is as good as tryin’ to get all ; 
yer see the j^rinciple ’s de same, — dat ar’s clar. And any 
one o’ these yer drivers that comes smelling round artor 
any our people, why, he’s got me in his way; I’m the feller 
he’s got to set in with, — I’m the feller for yer all to come 
to, brethren, — I’ll stand up for yer rights, — I’ll ’fend ’em 
to the last breath!” 

“Why, hut Sam, yer 
telled me, only this morn- 
in’, that you’d help this 
yer Mas’r to cotch ’Lizy; 
seems to me yer talk don’t 
hang together,” said Andy. 

“I tell yer now, Andy,” 
said Sam, with awful su- 
periority, “don’t yer he a 
talkin’ ’bout what yer 
don’t know nothin’ on; 
boys like you, Andy, means 
well, hut they can’t be 
’speeted to collusitate the 
great principles of action.” Andy looked rebuked and 
Sam proceeded. 

“Dat ar was conscience, Andy; when I thought of gwine 
arter ’Lizy, I railly speeded Mas’r was sot dat way. When 
I found Missis was sot the contrar, dat ar was conscience 
more yet, — cause fellers allers gets more by stickin’ to 
Missis’ side, — so yer see I’s persistent either way, and 
^i''‘ks up to conscience, and holds on to principles.” 



Sam in the kitchen. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


61 


Sam’s audience hanging on his words with open mouth, 
he could not but proceed. 

“Yes, indeed!” said Sam, rising, full of supper and 
glory, for a closing effort. “Yes, my feller-citizens and 
ladies of de other sex in general, I has principles, — I’m 
proud to ’oon ’em, — they ’s perquisite to dese yer times, 
and ter all times, — I’d walk right up to de stake, I would, 
and say, here I comes to shed my last blood fur my 
principles, fur my country, fur der gen’l interests of 
s’eiety.” 

“Well,” said Aunt Chloe, “one o’ yer principles will 
have to be to get to bed some time to-night, and not be a 
keepin’ everybody up till mornin’ ; now, every one of you 
young uns that don’t want to he cracked, had better bo 
scase, mighty sudden.” 

“N’iggers! all on yer,” said Sam, waving his palmleaf 
with benignity, “I give yer my hlessin’;-go to bed now, 
and he good hoys.” 


C 


62 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


CHAPTEE IX. 

IN WHICH IT APPEARS THAT A SENATOR IS BUT A MAN. 

T he light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and 
carpet of a cosy parlor, and glittered on the sides 
of the tea-cups and well-brightened tea-pot, as 
Senator Bird was drawing off his boots, preparatory to 
inserting his feet in a pair of new handsome slippers, 
which his wife had been working for him while away on 
his senatorial tour. Mrs. Bird, looking the very picture 
of delight, was superintending the arrangements of the 
table. “What have they been doing in the Senate?” said 
she. 

“Xot very much of importance.” 

“Well; but is it true that they have been passing a 
law forbidding people to give meat and drink to those 
poor colored folks that come along?” 

“There has been a law passed forbidding people to help 
off the slaves that come over from Kentucky, my dear.” 

“And what is the laAV? It don’t forbid us to shelter 
these poor creatures a night, does it, and to give ’em 
something comfortable to eat, and a few old clothes, and 
send them quietly about their business?” 

“Why, yes, my dear; that would be aiding and abetting 
you know.” 


63 



Life Among the Lowly. 

“Xow, John, I want to know if you think such a law as 
that is right and Christian?^’ 

“Xow, listen to me, Mary, and I can state to you a very 
clear argument, to show — ” 

“0, nonsense, John! you can talk all night, but you 
wouldn’t do it. I put it to you, John, — would you now 


“Senator Bird was drawing off his boots.” 

turn away a poor, shivering, hungry creature from your 
door, because he was a runaway? Would you, now?” 

‘^Of course, it would he a very painful duty,” began 
]\Ir. Bird, in a moderate tone. 

“Duty, John! don’t use that word! You know it isn’t 


64 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


a duty — it can’t be a duty! If folks want to keep their 
slaves from running away, let ’em treat ’em well, — that’s 
my doctrine.” 

At this critical juncture, old Cudjoe, the black man- 
of-all-work, put his head in at the door, and wished “Missis 
would come into the kitchen,” 

After a moment, his wife’s voice was heard at the door, 
in a quick, earnest tone, — “John! John! I do wish you’d 
come here, a moment.” 

He laid down his paper, and went into the kitchen, and 
started, quite ama-zed at the sight that presented itself; — 
a young and slender woman, with garments torn and 
frozen, with one shoe gone, and the stocking torn away 
from the cut and bleeding foot, was laid back in a deadly 
swoon upon two chairs. He drew his breath short, and 
stood in silence. 

“Sure, now, if she an’t a sight to behold!” said old 
Dinah, “’pears like ’t was the heat that made her faint. 
She was tol’able peart when she cum in, and asked if she 
couldn’t warm herself here a spell ; and I Avas Just a askin’ 
her where she ciim from, and she fainted right down. 
Never done much hard work, guess, by the looks of her 
hands.” 

“Poor creature!” said Mrs. Bird, compassionately, as 
the Avoman sloAAdv unclosed her large, dark eyes, and 
looked vacantly at her. Suddenly an expression of agony 
crossed her face, and she sprang up, saying, “0, my Harry ! 
Have they got him ?” 

The boy, at this, jumped from Cudjoe’s knee, and, run- 
ning to her side, put up his arms. “0 he’s here! he’s 
here!” she exclaimed. 



5 


65 


He drew his breath short, and stood in silence. 











66 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“0, ma’am!” said she, wildly, to Mrs. Bird, “do protect 
ns ! don’t let them get him !” 

“Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman,” said Mrs, 
Bird, encouragingly. “You are safe; don’t be afraid,” 

“God bless you!” said the woman, covering her face 
and sobbing; while the little boy, seeing her crying, tried 
to get into her lap. 

“You needn’t be afraid of anything; we are friends 
here, poor woman! Tell me where you came from, and 
what you want,” said Mrs, Bird. 

'‘T came from Kentucky,” said the woman. 

“When?” said Mr. Bird, taking up the interrogatory. 

“To-night.” 

“How did you come?” 

“I crossed on the ice.” 

“Crossed on the ice!” said every one present. 

“Yes,” said the woman, slowly, “I did. God helping 
me, I crossed on the ice; for they were behind me — right 
behind me — and there was no other way!” 

“Were you a slave ?” said Mr. Bird. 

“Yes, sir; I belonged to a man in Kentucky.” 

“Was he unkind to you?” 

“No, sir; he was a good master.” 

“And was your mistress unkind to you ?” 

“No, sir; — no! my mistress was always good to me.” 

“What could induce you to leave a good home, then, 
and run away, and go through such dangers?” 

The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird with a keen, scruti- 
nizing glance, and it did not escape her that she was 
dressed in deep mourning. 


Life Among the Lowly. 67 

“Ma’am,” she said, suddenly, “have you ever lost a 
child?” 

Mr. Bird turned around and walked to the window, and 
Mrs. Bird burst into tears; but, recovering her voice, she 
said, 

“Why do yon ask that? I have lost a little one.” 

“Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after 
another, — left ’em buried there when I came away; and 
I had only this one left. I never slept a night without 
him; he was all I had. He was my comfort and pride, 
day and night; and, ma’am, they were going to take him 
away from me, — to sell him, — sell him down south, ma’am, 
to go all alone, — a baby that had never been away from 
his mother in his life! I couldn’t stand it, ma’am. I 
knew I never should be good for anything, if they did; 
and when I knew the papers were signed, and he was sold, 
I took him and came off in the night; and they chased 
me, — the man that bought him, and some of Mas’rs 
folks, — and they were coming down right behind me, and 
I heard ’em. I jumped right on to the ice; and how I got 
across, I don’t know, — but, first I knew, a man was help- 
ing me up the bank.” 

“Have you no husband ?” 

“Yes, but he belongs to another man. His master is real 
hard to him, and won’t let him come to see me, hardly 
ever; and he’s grown harder and harder upon us, and he 
threatens to sell him down South; — it’s like I’ll never see 
him again !” 

“And where do you mean to go, my poor woman?” said 
Mrs. Bird. 

“To Canada, if I only knew where that was. Is it very 


68 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

far off, is Canada ?” said she, looking up, into Mrs. Bird’s 
face. 

“Much further than you think, poor child!” said Mrs. 
Bird; “but we will try to think what can be 'done for 
you. Here, Dinah, make her up a bed in your own room, 
close by the kitchen, and I’ll think what to do for her in 
the morning. Meanwhile, never fear, poor woman; put 
your trust in God ; He Avill protect you.” 

Mrs. Bird and her husband re-entered the parlor. Mr. 
Bird strode up and down the room, grumbling to him- 
self. At length, he said, 

“T say, wife, she’ll have to get away from here, this very 
night.” 

“To-night! How is it possible? — where to?” 

“Well, I know pretty well where to,” said the senator, 
beginning to put on his boots, with a reflective air. 

“It’s a confounded awkward, ugly business,” said he, 
at last, beginning to tug at his boot-straps again, “and 
that’s a fact!” 

“You see,” he said, at last, “there’s my old client. Van 
Trompe, has come over from Kentucky, and set all his 
slaves free; and he has bought a place seven miles up the 
creek, here, back in tbe woods, where nobody goes, unless 
they go on purpose; and it’s a place that isn’t found in 
a hurry. There she’d be safe enough; but the plague of 
the thing is, nobody could drive a carriage there to-night, 
but me.” 

“Why not? Cudjoe is an excellent driver.” 

“Ay, ay, but here it is. The creek has to be crossed 
twice; and the second crossing is quite dangerous, unless 
one knows it as I do. I have crossed it a hundred times 


Life Among the Lowly. 


69 


on horseback, and know exactly the turns to take. And 
so, you see, there’s no help for it. Cudjoe must put in 
the horses, as quietly as may be, about twelve o’clock, 
and I’ll take her over; and then, to give color to the mat- 
ter, he must carry me on to the next tavern, to take the 
stage for Columbus, that comes by about three or four, 
and so it will look as if I had had the carriage only for 
that. I shall get into business bright and early in the 
morning. But I’m thinking I shall feel rather cheap 
there, after all that’s been said and done; but, hang it, 
I can’t help it!” 

‘‘Your heart is better than your head, in this ease, 
John,” said the wife, laying her little white hand on his. 
“Could I ever have loved Amu, had I not knoAAm you better 
than Amu knoAv yourself?” 

“Mary, I don’t knoAV how you’d feel about it, but there’s 
that draAAmr full of things — of — of — poor little Henry’s.” 
So saying, he turned quickly on his heel, and shut the 
door after him. 

Mrs. Bird sloAvly opened the drawer. There Avere little 
coats, piles of aprons, and roAA'^s of small stockings; and 
even a pair of little shoes, worn and rubbed at the toes, 
Avere peeping from the folds of a paper. There was a toy 
horse and Avagon, a top, a hall, — memorials gathered with 
many a tear and many a heart-break! 

“Mamma,” said one of the hoys, gently touching her 
arm, “are you going to give aAAmy those things ?” 

“My dear hoys,” she said, softly and earnestly, “if our 
dear, loving little Henry looks doAAm from heaven, he 
would he glad to have us do this!” 

“Slary,” said her husband, coming in, with his overcoat 


70 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


in his hand, “you must wake her up now; we must be 
off.” 

Mrs. Bird hastily deposited the various articles she had 
collected in a small plain trunk, and locking it, desired 
her husband to see it in the carriage, and then proceeded 
to call the woman. Soon, arrayed in a cloak, bonnet, and 
shawl, that had belonged to her benefactress, she ap- 
peared at the 'door with her child in her arms. Mr. Bird 
hurried her into the carriage, and Mrs. Bird pressed on 
after her to the carriage steps. Eliza leaned out of the 
carriage, and put out her hand, — a hand as soft and beau- 
tiful as was given in return. She fixed her large, dark 
eyes, full of earnest meaning, on Mrs. Bird’s face, and 
seemed going to speak. Tier lips moved, — she tried once 
or twice, but there was no sound, — and pointing upward, 
with a look never to be forgotten, she fell back in the seat, 
and covered her face. The door was shut, and the car- 
riage drove on. 

There had been a long continuous period of rainy 
weather, and the road was an Ohio railroad of the good 
old times, made of round rough logs, arranged side by 
side, and coated over with earth and turf. 

Over such a road as this our senator went stumbling 
along, making moral reflections as continuously as under 
the circumstances could be expected. At last, with a 
square plunge, which puts all on to their feet and then 
down into their seats Avith incredible quickness, the car- 
riage stops, — and, after much outside commotion, Cudjoe 
appears at the door. 

“Please, sir, it’s powerful bad spot, this yer. I don’t 


Life Among the Lowly. 


71 


know' how' we’s to get clar out. I’m a thiukin’ we’ll have 
to be a gettin’ rails.” 

It was late in the night when the carriage, dripping 
and bespattered, stood at the door of a large farm-house, 



“I rather think I am.” 


It took some time to arouse the inmates; but at last the 
proprietor appeared, and undid the door. He was a great, 
tall fellow, full six feet and some inches in his stockings, 


72 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


and arrayed in a red flannel hunting-shirt. A very heavy 
mat of sandy hair, in a decidedly tousled condition, and 
a beard of some days’ growth, gave the worthy man an 
appearance, to say the least, not particularly prepossess- 
ing. 

‘‘Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and 
child from slave-catchers?” said the senator, explicitly. 

“I rather think I am,” said honest John, with some 
considerable emphasis. 

“I thought so,” said the senator. 

“If there’s anybody comes,” said the good man, stretch- 
ing his tall, muscular form upward, “why here I’m ready 
for him: and I’ve got seven sons, each six foot high, and 
they’ll be ready for ’em. Give our respects to ’em,” said 
John; “tell ’em it’s no matter how soon they call, — make 
no kinder difference to us,” said John, running his fingers 
through the shock of hair that thatched his head, and 
bursting out into a great laugh. 

Weary, Jaded, and spiritless,' Eliza dragged herself up 
to the door, with her child lying in a heavy sleep on her 
arm. The rough man held the candle to her face, and 
uttering a kind of compassionate grunt, opened the door 
of a small bedroom adjoining to the large kitchen where 
they were standing, and motioned her to go in. He took 
down a candle, and lighting it, set it upon the table, and 
then addressed himself to Eliza. 

“Now, I say, gal, you needn’t be a bit afeared, let who 
will come here. I’m up to all that sort o’ thing,” said he, 
pointing to two or three rifles over the mantelpiece; “and 
most people that know me know that ’t Avouldn’t he 
healthy to try to get anybody out o’ my house when I’m 


Life Among the Lowly. 


73 


agin it. So now you just go to sleep now, as quiet as if 
yer mother was a rockin^ ye,” said he, as he shut the 
door. 

The senator, in a few words, briefly explained Eliza’s 
history. 

‘T want to know?” said the good man, pitifully; ‘‘sho! 
now sho! That’s natur now, poor crittur! hunted down 
now like a deer, — hunted down, just for havin’ natural 
feelin’s, and doin’ what no kind o’ mother could help a 
doin’! I tell ye what, these yer things make me come the 
Highest to swearin’, now, o’ most anything,” said honest 
John, as he wiped his eyes with the hack of a great, 
freckled, yellow hand. 

^‘Ye’d better jest put up here, now, till daylight,” added 
he, heartily, ‘‘and I’ll call up the old woman, and have a 
bed got ready for you in no time.” 

“Thank you, my good friend,” said the senator, “I must 
he along, to take the night stage for Columbus.” 

“Ah! well, then, if you must. I’ll go a piece with you, 
and show you a cross road that will take you there better 
than the road you came on. That road’s mighty bad.” 

John equipped himself, and, with a lantern in hand, 
was soon seen guiding the senator’s carriage towards a 
road that ran down in a hollow, back of his dwelling. 
When they parted, the senator put into his hand a ten- 
dollar bill. 

“It’s for her,” he said, briefly. 

They shook hands, and parted. 


74 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


CHAPTER X. 

THE PROPERTY IS CARRIED OFF. 

T he February morning looked gray and drizzling 
through the window of Uncle Tom’s cabin. 

Tom sat with his Testament open on his knee, 
and his head leaning upon his hand. It was yet early, and 
the children lay all asleep together in their little rude 
trundle-bed. Soon he got up and walked silently to look 
at his children. “It’s the last time,” he said. 

“Missis says she’ll try and ’deem ye, in a year or two; 
but Lor! nobody never comes up that goes down tharl 
They kills ’em ! I’ve hearn ’em tell how dey works ’em up 
on dem ar plantations.” 

“There’ll be the same God there, Chloe, that there is 
here.” 

“Well,” said Aunt Chloe, “s’pose dere will; but de Lord 
lets dreflPul things happen, sometimes. I don’t seem to 
get no comfort dat way.” 

“I’m in the Lord’s hands,” said Tom; “nothin’ can go 
no furder than He lets it; and thar’s one thing I can 
thank Him for. It’s me that’s sold and going dowm, and 
not you nur the chil’en. Here you’re safe; — what comes 
will come only on me, and the Tjord, He’ll help me, — I 
know He will.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


75 


The simple morning meal now smoked on the table. 
The poor soul had expended all her little energies on this 
farewell feast,— had killed and dressed her choicest 
chicken, and prepared her corn-cake with scrupulous ex- 
actness, just to her husband’s taste. 



“Tom sat with his Testament on his knee.” 


^‘Lor, Pete,” said Mose, triumphantly, “han’t we got a 
buster of a breakfast!*’ at the same time catching at a 
fragment of the chicken. 

Aunt Chloe gave him a sudden box on the ear. “Thar 



76 


Uncle Toni’s Cabin; or 


now! crowing over the last breakfast yer poor daddy’s 
gwine to have to home!” 

“0, Chloe!” said Tom, gently. 

“Wal, I can’t help it,” said Annt Chloe, hiding her face 
in her apron; ‘T’se so tossed about, it makes me act ugly.” 

‘‘Now,” said Aunt Chloe, bustling about after breakfast. 
“I must put up yer clothes. Jest like as not, he’ll take 
’em all away. I know thar ways — mean as dirt, they is!” 

Mrs. Shelby entered. “Tom,” she said, “I come to — ” 
and stopping suddenly, and regarding the silent group, 
she sat down in the chair, and, covering her face with her 
handkerchief, began to sob. 

“Lor, now. Missis, don’t — don’t !” said Aunt Chloe, 
bursting out in her turn; and for a few moments they all 
wept in company. 

“My good fellow,” said Mrs. Shelby, “I can’t give you 
anything to do you any good. If I give you money, it 
Avill only be taken from you. But I tell you solemnly, and 
before God, that I will keep trace of you, and bring you 
back as soon as I can command the money; — and, till 
then, trust in God!” 

Here the boys called out that Mas’r Haley was coming, 
and then an unceremonious kick pushed open the door. 

“Come,” said he, “ye nigger, ye ’r ready? Servant, 
ma’am !” said he, taking off his hat, as he saw Mrs. Shelby. 

Tom rose up meekly, to follow his new master, and 
raised up his heavy box on his shoulder. His wife took the 
baby in her arms to go with him to the wagon, and the 
children, still crying, trailed on behind. 

A crowd of all the old and young hands on the place 


Life Among the Lowly. 77 

stood gathered around it, to hid farewell to their old as- 
sociate. 

‘‘Why, Chloe, you bar it better’n we do !” said one of the 
women, who had been weeping freely. 

“Fs done my tears!” she said, looking grimly at the 
trader, who was coming up. “I does not feel to cry ’fore 
dat ar old limb, no how!” 

“Get in!” said Haley to Tom, as he strode through the 
crowd of servants. 

Tom got in, and Haley, drawing out from under the 
wagon seat a heavy pair of shackles, made them fast 
around each ankle. 

“I’m sorry,” said I’om, “that Mas’r George happened 
to be away. Give my love to Mas’r George,” he said, earn- 
estly. 

Haley whipped up the horse, and, with a steady, mourn- 
ful look, fixed to the last on the old place, Tom was 
whirled away. 

After they had ridden about a mile, Haley drew up at 
the door of a blacksmith’s shop, and, taking out with him 
a pair of handcuffs, stepped into the shop, to have a little 
alteration in them. 

Tom was sitting very mournfully on the outside of the 
shop. Suddenly he heard the quick, short click of a 
horse’s hoof behind him; and, before he could fairly 
awake from his surprise, young Master George sprang into 
the wagon, threw his arms tumultuously round his neck, 
and was sobbing and scolding with energy. 

“I declare, it’s real mean! I don’t care what they say, 
any of ’em ! It’s a nasty, mean shame ! If I was a man. 


78 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin: or 


they shouldn’t do it, — they should not, so!” said George, 
with a kind of subdued howl. 

“0! ]\[as’r George! this does me good!” said Tom. ‘T 
couldn’t ba’r to go off without seein’ ye ! It does me real 
good, ye can’t tell!” 

“I say it’s a shame! Look here. Uncle Tom,” said he, 
turning his back to the shop, and speaking in a myster- 
ious tone, ‘T’ve brought you my dollar!” 

^‘0! I couldn’t think o’ takin’ on ’t, Mas’r George, no 
ways in the world!” said Tom, quite moved. 


‘‘But you shall take it !” 
said George; look here — I 
told Aunt Chloe I’d do it, 
and she advised me just to 
make a hole in it, and put 
a string through, so you 
could hang it round your 
neck, and keep it -out of 
sight; else this mean scamp 
would take it away.” 





“ISiow, Mas’r George,” 


“It’s a nasty, mean shame.” 


said Tom, “ye must be a good boy; ’member how many 
hearts is sot on ye. Al’ays keep close to yer mother. 
Don’t be gettin’ into any of them foolish ways boys has of 
gettin’ too big to mind their mothers. ’j\Iember yer Cre- 
ator in the days o’ yer youth, Mas’r George.” 

“I’ll be real good. Uncle Tom, I tell you,” said George, 
“and don’t you be discouraged. I’ll have you back to the 
place, yet. As I told Aunt Chloe this morning, I’ll build 
your house all over, and you shall have a room for a parlor 


Life Among the Lowly. 79 

with a carpet on it, when I’m a man. 0, you’ll have good 
times yet!” 

^“^Now, I tell ye what, Tom,” said Haley, as he came up 
to the wagon, and threw in the hand-cuffs, ‘T mean to 
start fa’r with ye, as 1 gen’ally do with my niggers; and 
I’ll tell ye now, to begin with, you treat me fa’r, and I’ll 
treat you fa’r; I an’t never hard on my niggers. Calcu- 
lates to do the best for ’em I can. Now, ye see, you’d 
better just settle down comfortable, and not be tryin’ no 
tricks; because nigger’s tricks of all sorts I’m up to, and 
it’s no use. If niggers is quiet, and don’t try to get off, 
they has good times with me; and if they don’t, why, it’s 
thar fault, and not mine.” 

Tom assured Haley that he had no present intentions 
of running off. In fact, the exhortation seemed rather a 
superfluous one to a man with a great pair of iron fetters 
on his feet. 


80 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


CHAPTER XI. 

IN WHICH PROPERTY GETS IN AN IMPROPER STATE OF MIND. 

O NE drizzly afternoon a traveler alighted at the door 
of a small country hotel, in a village in Kentucky. 
In the bar-room he found assembled quite a 
miscellaneous company, whom stress of weather had 
driven to harbor, and the place presented the usual scenery 
of such reunions. Great, tall, raw-boned Kentuckians, 
attired in hunting-shirts, — rifles stacked away in the 
corner, shot-pouches, game-bags, hunting-dogs, and little 
negroes, all rolled together in the corners, — were the 
characteristic features in the picture. 

Into this assembly our traveler entered. He was a 
short, thick-set man, carefully dressed, with a round, good- 
natured countenance, and something rather fussy and 
particular in his appearance. 

‘‘What’s that?” said the old gentleman, observing some 
of the company formed in a group around a large hand- 
bill. 

“Nigger advertised!” said one of the company, briefly. 
]\Tr. Wilson, for that was the old gentleman’s name, 
rose up, and read as follows; 

“Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. 
Said George six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown 


Life Among the Lowly. 


81 


curly hair; is very intelligent, speaks handsomely, can 
read and write; will probably try to pass for a white man; 
is deeply scarred on his back and shoulders; has been 
branded in his right hand with a letter H. 

“I will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and the 
same sum for satisfactory proof that he has been killed.” 

While he Avas studying it, a long-legged man walked 
up to the advertisement, and very deliberately spit a 
mouthful of tobacco-juice on it. 

‘‘There’s my mind upon that!” said he, briefly, and sat 
down again. 

“Why, now, stranger, what’s that for?” said the land- 
lord. 

“I’d do it all the same to the writer of that ar paper, 
if he was here,” said the long man. “Any man that owns 
a hoy like that, and can’t find any better way o’ treating 
on him, deserves to lose him. Such papers as these is a 
shame to Kentucky; that’s my mind right out, if anybody 
Avants to knoAv!” 

“That’s a fact,” said the landlord. 

“I’ve got a gang of hoys, sir,” said the long man, “and 
I jest tells ’em — ‘Boys,’ says I, — ‘run now! dig! put! jest 
AAdien ye want to! I never shall come to look after you!’ 
That’s the way I keep mine. Let ’em knoAV they are free 
to run any time, and it jest breaks up their Avanting to. 
More ’n all. I’ve got free papers for ’em all recorded, in 
case I gets keeled up any o’ these times, and they knoAVS 
it ; and I tell ye, stranger, there an’t a felloAv in our parts 
gets more out of his niggers than I do. Why, my boys 
have been to Cincinnati, with five hundred dollars’ wor.th 
6 


83 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


of colts, and brought me back the money, all straight, 
time and agin. It stands to reason they should. Treat 
’em like dogs, and you’ll have dogs’ work and dogs’ ac- 
tions. Treat ’em like men, and you’ll have men’s work.” 

“I think you’re altogether right, friend,” said Mr. Wil- 
son; “and this boy described here is a fine fellow. He 
worked for me some half-dozen years in my bagging fac- 
tory, and he was my best hand, sir. He is an ingenious 
fellow, too; he invented a machine for the cleaning of 
hemp — a really valuable affair; it’s gone into use in several 
factories. His master bolds the patent of it.” 

“I’ll warrant ye,” said the drover, “holds it and makes 
money out of it, and then turns round and brands the boy 
in his right hand. If I had a fair chance, I’d mark him, 
I reckon, so that he’d carry it one while.” 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance 
of a well-dressed gentleman and a colored servant. 

He Avalked easily in among the company and with a 
nod indicated to his waiter where to place his trunk, 
bowed to the company, and, with his hat in his hand, 
walked up leisurely to the bar, and gave in his name as 
Henry Butler, Oaklands, Shelby county. Turning, with 
an indifferent air, he sauntered up to the advertisement, 
and read it over. 

“Jim,” he said to his man, “seems to me Ave met a boy 
something like this, up at Bernan’s, didn’t Ave?” 

‘Wes, Mas’r,” said Jim, “only I an’t sure about the 
hands.” 

“Well, I didn’t look, of course,” said the stranger, Avith 
a careless yawn. Then, walking up to the landlord, he 


Life Among the Lowly. 


83 


desired him to furnish him with a private apartment, as 
he had some writing to do immediately. 

Mr. WiLson, from the time of the entrance of the 
stranger, had regarded him with an air of disturbed and 



“Henry Butler, Oaklands, Shelby County.” 

uneas}^ curiosity. He stared at the stranger with such an 
air of blank amazement and alarm, that he walked up to 
him. 



84 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“Mr. Wilson, I think,” said he, in a tone of recognition, 
and extending his hand. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t 
recollect yon before. I see yon remember me, — Mr. But- 
ler, of Oaklands, Shelby county.” 

“Ye — ^>^es — yes, sir,” said Mr. Wilson. 

Just then a negro hoy entered, and announced that 
Mas’r’s room was ready. 

“Jim, see to the trunks,” said the gentleman, negli- 
gently; then turning to IMr. Wilson, he added — “I should 
like to have a few moments’ conversation Avith you on 
business, in my room, if you please.” 

Mr. Wilson followed him, and when they reached the 
room, the young man deliberately locked the door, and 
put the key in his pocket. 

“George!” said Mr. Wilson. 

“Yes, George,” said the young man. 

“0, George ! hut this is a dangerous game you are play- 
ing. I could not have advised Amu to it.” 

“I can do ft on my OAvn responsibility,” said George, 
with the same proud smile. 

After a long conversation, George said, “I am going to 
Canada, AA^here the laAAS Avill OAvn me and protect me, that 
shall he my countrA’’, and its laAA^s I AA'ill obey. But if any 
man tries to stop me, let him take care, for I am desperate. 
I’ll fight for my liberty to the last breath I breathe. You 
say your fathers did it; if it was right for them, it is 
right for me!” 

“Where is your wife, George?” said Mr. Wilson. 

“Gone, sir, gone, with her child in her arms, the Lord 
only knows where, and when Ave ever meet, or AAdiether Ave 
meet at all in this world, no creature can tell.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


85 


“Is it possible! Here, George,” and, taking out a roll 
of bills from his pocket-book, he offered them to George. 

“No, my kind, good sir!” said George. “I have money 
enough, I hope, to take me as far as I need it.” 



“Where is your wife, George?” 


“No, hut you must, George. Take it, my boy!” 

“On condition, sir, that i may repay it at some future 
time, I will,” said George, taking up the money. 



86 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“George, something has brought you out wonderfully. 
You hold up your head, and speak and move like another 
man,” said Mr. Wilson. 

“Because I’m a freeman!” said George, proudly. “Yes, 
sir; I’ve said Mas’r for the last time to any man. I’m 
free!” 

“I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of 
it, — your condition and your risks!” said Mr. Wilson. 

“]\[r. Wilson, one word more; you have shown yourself 
a Christian in your treatment of me, — I want to ask one 
last deed of Christian kindness of you.” 

“Well, George?” 

“If you’d only contrive, IMr. Wilson, to send this little 
pin to her. She gave it to me for a Christmas present, 
poor child! Give it to her, and tell her I loved her to the 
last. Will you?” 

“Yes, certainly — poor fellow!” said the old gentleman, 
taking the pin. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


87 


CHAPTER XII. 

SELECT INCIDENT OF LAWFUL TRADE. 

M r. HALEY and Tom jogged onward in their wagon, 
each, for a time, absorbed in his own reflections. 
However, the day wore on, and the evening saw 
Haley and Tom comfortably accommodated in Washing- 
ton, — the one in a tavern, and the other in a jail. 

About eleven o’clock the next day, a mixed throng was 
gathered around the court house steps, waiting for a slave 
auction to commence. 

The different men on the list were soon knocked off at 
prices which showed a pretty brisk demand in the market; 
two of them fell to Haley. 

‘‘Come, now, young un,” said the auctioneer, giving a 
boy a touch with his hammer, “be up and show your 
springs, now.” 

“Put us tw^o up togedder, togedder, — do please, Mas’r,” 
said an old woman, holding fast to her boy. 

“Be off,” said the man, gruffly, pushing her hands away; 
“you come last. Xow, darkey, spring;” and, with the 
wnrd, he pushed the boy towards the block. 

His fine figure, alert limbs, and bright face, raised an 
instant competition, and half a dozen bids simultaneously 
met the ear of the auctioneer. Anxious, half-frightened. 


88 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


he looked from side to side, as he heard the clatter of 
contending bids, — now here, now there, — till the hammer 
fell. Haley had got him. He was pushed from the block 
toward his new master, but stopped one moment, and 
looked back, when his poor old mother, trembling in every 
limb, held out her shaking hands towards him. 

“Buy me too, Mas’r, for de dear Lord’s sake! — buy 
me, — I shall die if you don’t!” 

“You’ll die if I do, that’s the kink of it,” said Haley, — 
“no !” And he turned on his heel. 

“Now!” said Haley, pushing his three purchases to- 
gether, and producing a bundle of handcuffs, which he 
proceeded to put on their wrists ; and fastening each hand- 
cuff to a long chain, he drove them before him to the jail. 

A few days saw Haley, with his possessions, safely de- 
posited on one of the Ohio boats. It was the commence- 
ment of his gang, to be augmented, as the boat moved on, 
l)y various other merchandise of the same kind, which he, 
or his agent, had stored for him in various points along 
sliore. 

The stripes and stars of free .\merica waved and flut- 
tered overhead; the guards were crowded with well- 
dressed ladies and gentlemen walking and enjoying the 
delightful day. All was full of life, buoyant and rejoic- 
ing; — all but Haley’s gang, who were stored, with other 
freight, on the lower deck. 

“Boys,” said Haley, coming up, briskly, “I hope you 
keep up good heart, and are cheerful. Now, no sulks, 
ye see ; keep a stiff upper lip, boys ; do well by me, and I’ll 
do well by you.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


89 



The boys addressed responded the invariable “Yes, 
Mas’r,” but they did not look particularly cheerful. 

One day, when the boat stopped at a small town in 
Kentucky, Haley went up into the place on a little matter 


“Put US two up, togedder, togedder.” 

of business. Tom, whose fetters did not prevent his tak- 
ing a moderate circuit, had drawn near the side of the 
boat, and stood listlessly gazing over the railings. After 


90 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


a time, the trader returned with a colored woman, bear- 
ing in her arms a young child. She was dressed quite re- 
spectably, and a colored man followed her, bringing along 
a small trunk. The umman came cheerfully onward, 
talking, as she came, with the man who bore her trunk, 
and so passed up the plank into the boat. She walked 
forward among the boxes and bales of the lower deck, 
and, sitting down, busied herself with chirruping to her 
baby. 

Soon Haley seated himself near her, and began saying 
something to her in an undertone. 

Tom noticed that she answered rapidly, and with great 
vehemence. 

“I don’t believe it, — I won’t believe it!” he heard her 
say. “You’re jist a foolin’ Avith me.” 

“If you won’t believe it, look here!” said the man, draAV- 
ing out a paper: “this yer’s the bill of sale, and there’s 
your master’s name to it; and I paid doAvn good solid 
cash for it, too, I can tell you, — so, noAv!” 

“I don’t belicA^e Mas’r would cheat me so; it can’t be 
true!” said the Avoman, Avith increasing agitation. 

“He told me that I was going down to Louisville, to 
hire out as cook to the same tavern where my husband 
works, — that’s Avhat Mas’r told me, his oAvn self; and 1 
can’t believe he’d lie to me,” said the Avoman. 

“But he has sold you, my poor Avoman, there’s no doAibt 
about it,” said a good-natured looking man, who had been 
examining tbe papers. 

“Then it’s no account talking,” said the Avoman, sud- 
denly groAving quite calm; and, clasping her child tighter 


Life Among the Lowly. 


91 


in her arms, she sat down on her box, turned her back 
round, and gazed listlessly into the river. 

“That’s a fine chap!” said a man, suddenly stopping 
opposite to him, with his hands in his pockets. “How 
old is he?” 

“Ten months and a half,” said the mother. 

The man whistled to the boy, and offered him part of 



“I don’t believe it.” 

a stick of candy, which he eagerly grabbed at, and very 
soon had it in his mouth. Then the man whistled and 
walked on. When he had got to the other side of the 
boat, he came across Haley, who was smoking on top of a 
pile of boxes. 

“They won’t want the young ’un on f> 

the man. 


92 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“I shall sell him, first chance I find,” said Haley. 

‘T'll give thirty for him,” said the stranger, “but not a 
cent more,” 

“Now, I’ll tell ye what I will do,” said Hale}'^, “I’ll say 
forty-five; and that’s the most I will do.” 

“Well, agreed!” said the man, after an interval. 

“Done!” said Haley. “Where do yon land?” 

“At Louisville,” said the man. 

“Louisville,” said Haley. “We get there about dusk. 
Chap will be asleep, get him off quietly, and no screaming, 
I like to do everything quietly, — I hates all kind of agita- 
tion and fluster.” And so, after a transfer of certain bills 
had passed from the man’s pocketbook to the trader’s, 
he resumed his cigar. 

When the boat stopped at the wharf at Louisville, the 
woman was sitting with her baby in her arms. When 
she heard the name of the place called out, she hastily 
laid the child down in a little cradle formed by the hollow 
among the boxes, first carefully spreading her cloak un- 
der it; and then she sprung to the side of the boat, in 
hopes that, among the various hotel-waiters who thronged 
the wharf, she might see her husband. She pressed for- 
ward to the front rails, and the crowd pressed in between 
her and the child. 

“Now’s your time,” said Haley, taking the sleeping child 
up, and handing him to the stranger. “Don’t wake him 
up, and set him to crying, now.” The man took the bundle 
carefully, and was soon lost in the crowd that went up 


the wharf the woman returned to 


Life Among the Lowly. 93 

her old seat. The trader was sitting there, — the child 
was gone! 

“Why, why, — where?” she began, in bewildered sur- 
prise. 

“Lucy,” said the trader, “your child’s gone; you may 
as well know it first as last. You see, I know’d you 
couldn’t take him down South; and I got a chance to sell 
him to a first-rate family, 
that’ll raise him better 
than you can.” 

Dizzily she sat down. 

Her hands fell lifeless by 
her side. Her eyes looked 
straight forward, but she 
saw nothing. The poor, 
dumh-stricken heart had 
neither cry nor tear to 
show for its utter misery. 

She was quite calm. 

“I know this yer comes 
kinder hard, at first, Luc)^” 
said he; but such a smart, 
sensible gal as you are, 
won’t give way to it. You see it’s necessary, and can’t 
be helped!” 

“0 ! don’t, Mas’r, don’t !” said the woman, with a voice 
like one that is smothering. 

“You’re a smart wench, Lucy,” he persisted; “I mean 
to do well by ye, and get ye a nice place down river; and 
you’ll soon get another husband, — such a likely gal as 
you—” 



D 


94 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“0! Mas’r, if you only won’t talk to me now,” said the 
woman, in a voice of such quick and living anguish that 
the trader got up, and the woman turned away, and 
buried her head in her cloak. 

Tom had watched the whole transaction from first to 
last, and had a perfect understanding of its results. He 
drew near, and tried to say something; but she only 
groaned. Honestly, and with tears running down his 
own cheeks, he spoke of a heart of love in the skies, of a 
pitying Jesus, and an eternal home; but the ear was deaf 
with anguish, and the palsied heart could not feel. 

One after another, the voices of business or pleasure 
died away; all on the boat were sleeping, and the ripples 
at the prow were plainly heard. Tom stretched himself 
out on a box, and there, as he lay, he heard, ever and anon, 
a smothered sob or cry from the prostrate creature, — “0 ! 
what shall I do? 0 Lord! 0 good Lord, do help me!” 
and so ever and anon, until the murmur died away in 
silence. 

The trader waked up bright and early, and came out to 
see to his live stock. “Where alive is that gal?” he said 
to Tom. 

Tom said he did not know. 

“She surely couldn’t have got off in the night at any of 
the landings, for I was aAvake, and on the look-out, when- 
ever the boat stopped. I never trust these yer things to 
other folks.”. 

Tom made no answer. 

The trader searched the boat from stem to stern, among 
boxes, bales and barrels, around the machinery, by the 
chimneys, in vain. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


95 


“Now, I say, Tom, be fair about this yer,” he said, when, 
after a fruitless search, he came where Tom was standing, 
“You know something about it, now. Don’t tell me, — I 
know you do.” 

“Well, Mas’r,” said Tom, “towards morning something 
brushed by me, and I kinder half woke; and then I hearn 
a great splash, and then I dare woke up, and the gal was 
gone. That’s all I know on ’t.” 

The trader was not shocked nor amazed. He had seen 
Death many times, — met him in the way of trade, and 
got acquainted with him, — and he only thought of him 
as a hard customer, that embarrassed his property opera- 
tions very unfairly; and so he only swore that he was 
unlucky, and that, if things went on in this way, he should 
not make a cent on the trip. He, therefore, sat discon- 
tentedly down, with his little account-book, and put down 
the missing body and soul under the head of losses! 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE QUAKER SETTLEMENT. 

I N a large, roomy, neatly painted kitchen, its yellow 
floor glossy and smooth, and without a particle of 
dust, sat our old friend Eliza, paler and thinner 
than in her Kentucky home, with a world of quiet sorrow 
lying under the shadow of her long eyelashes, and marking 


96 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


the outline of her gentle mouth! When her dark eyes 
raised to follow the gambols of her little Harry, who was 
sporting, hither and thither over the floor, she showed a 
depth of firmness and steady resolve that was never there 
in her earlier and happier days. • 

By her side sat a woman of fifty-five or sixty; but with 
one of those faces that time seems to touch only to 
brighten and adorn. The snowy lisse crape cap, made 
after the strait Quaker pattern, — the plain white muslin 
handkerchief, lying in placid folds across her bosom,-'— 
the drab shawl and dress, — showed at once the commun- 
ity to which she belonged. Her face was round and rosy, 
and her hair, partially silvered by age, was parted smoothly 
back from a high placid forehead. 

“And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza?” 
she said. 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Eliza, firml3^ “I must go on. I 
dare not stop.” 

“And what’ll thee do, when thee gets there? Thee 
must think about that, my daughter.” 

Eliza’s hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine 
work; but she answered, firmly, 

“I shall do — anything I can find. I hope I can find 
something.” 

“Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases,” 
said Bachel. 

“0, thank you,” said Eliza, “but” — she pointed to 
Harry — “I can’t sleep nights; I can’t rest. Last night I 
dreamed I saw that man coming into the yard,” she said, 
shuddering. 

“Poor child!” said Kachel, ^viping her eyes; “but thee 


Life Among the Lowly. 


97 


mustn’t feel so. The Lord hath ordered it so that never 
hath a fugitive been stolen from our village. I trust thine 
will not be the first.” 



“I must go on. I dare not stop.” 


The door here opened, and a little short, round, pin- 
eushiony woman stood at the door, with a cheery, blootn- 
ing face, like a ripe apple. She was dressed, like Rachel, 
7 


98 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


in sober gray, with the muslin folded neatly across her 
round, plump little chest. 

“Ruth Stedman,” said Rachel, coming joyfully forward; 
“how is thee, Ruth?” she said, heartily taking both her 
hands. 

“Nicely,” said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, 
displaying, as she did so, a round little head, on which 
the Quaker cap sat with a sort of jaunty air. 

“Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris; and this is the little 
boy I told thee of.” 

“I am glad to see thee, Eliza, — very,” said Ruth, shak- 
ing hands, as if Eliza were an old friend she had long been 
expecting; “and this is thy dear boy, — I brought a cake 
for him,” she said, holding it out to the boy, who came up, 
gazing through his curls, and accepted it shyly, 

Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab 
coat and pantaloons, and broad-brimmed hat, now en- 
tered. 

“How is thee, Ruth?” he said, warmly, “and how is 
John?” 

“0! John is well, and all the rest of our folks,” said 
Ruth, cheerily. 

“Did thee say thy name was Harris?” said Simeon to 
Eliza. 

Eliza tremulously answered “yes,” her fears, ever upper- 
most, suggesting that possibly there might be advertise- 
ments out for her. 

“Mother!” said Simeon, standing in the porch, and 
calling Rachel out. 

“What does thee want, father?” said Rachel, as she 
went out. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


99 


f‘This child’s husband is in the settlement, and will be 
here to-night,” said Simeon. 

'‘Now, thee doesn’t say that, father?” said Rachel. 

‘‘It’s really true. Peter was down yesterday, to the 
other stand, and there he found an old woman and two 
men; and one said his name was George Harris; and, from 
what he told of his history, I am certain who he is. Shall 
we tell her now?” said Simeon. 

“Let’s tell Ruth,” said Rachel. “Here, Ruth, — come 
here.” 

Ruth was in the back porch in a moment. 

“Ruth, what does thee think?” said Rachel. “Father 
says Eliza’s husband is in the last company, and will be 
here to-night.” 

A burst of Joy from the little Quakeress interrupted 
the speech. 

“Hush thee, dear!” said Rachel, gently; “hush, Ruth! 
Tell us, shall we tell her now?” 

“Now! to be sure, — this very minute. Why, now sup- 
pose ’t was my John, how should I feel? Do tell her, 
right off.” 

Rachel came to where Eliza was sewing, and opening 
the door of a small bedroom said, gently, “Come in here 
with me, my daughter; I have news to tell thee.” 

“Have courage, child,” said Rachel, laying her hand on 
her head. “Your husband is among friends, who will bring 
him here to-night.” 

' “To-night !” Eliza repeated, “to-night !” The words lost 
all meaning to her; her head was dreamy and confused; 
all was mist for a moment. 

When she awoke, she found herself snugly tucked up 


100 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


on the bed, with a blanket over her, and little Euth rub- 
bing her hands with camphor. Then she slept as she had 
not slept before, since the fearful midnight hour when 
she had taken her child and fled through the frosty star- 
light. 

She dreamed of a beautiful country, — a land, it seemed 
to her, of rest, — green shores, pleasant islands, and beau- 
tifully glittering water; and there, in a house which kind 
voices told her was a home, she saw her boy playing, a 



“Her Itusband was sobbing.” • 


free and happy child. She heard her husband’s footsteps; 
she felt him coming nearer; his arms were around her, 
liis tears falling on her face, and she awoke! It was no 
dream. The daylight had long faded ; her child lay calmly 
sleeping by her side; a candle was burning dimly on the 
stand, and her husband was sobbing by her pillow. 

Tlie next morning was the first time that ever George 
had sat down on equal terms at any white man’s table; 


Life Among the Lowly. 101 

and he sat at first, with some constraint and awkward- 
ness. 

‘‘I hope, my good sir, that you are not exposed to any 
difficulty on our account,” said George, anxiously. 

‘‘Fear not, friend George; it is not for thee, but for God 
and man, we do it,” said Simeon. “And now thou must 
lie by quietly this day, and to-night, at ten o’clock, 
Phineas Fletcher will carry thee onward to the next 
stand, — thee and the rest of thy company. The pursuers 
are hard after thee; we must not delay.” 

“If that is the case, why wait till evening!” said George. 

“Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in the 
settlement is a Friend, and all are watching. It has been 
found safer to travel by night.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

EVANGELINE. 

A mong the passengers on the boat that bore Haley 
and his living property was a young gentleman 
of fortune and family, resident in New Orleans, 
who bore the name of St. Clare. He had with him a 
daughter between five and six years of age, together with 


102 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


a lady who seemed to claim relationship to both, and to 
have the little one especially under her charge. 

Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl, — for 
she was one of those busy creatures, that can be no more 
contained in one place than a sunbeam or a summer 
breeze. Her form was the perfection of childish beauty. 
Her face was remarkable less for its perfect beauty of 
feature; the deep spiritual gravity of her violet blue eyes, 
shaded by heavy fringes of golden brown, — all marked 
her out from other children, and made every one turn and 
look after her, as she glided hither and thither on the 
boat. 

Tom watched the little creature with daily increasing 
interest. To him she seemed something almost divine; 
and wlienever her golden head and deep blue eyes peered 
out upon him from behind some dusky cotton-bale, or 
looked down upon him over some ridge of packages, he 
half believed that he saw one of the angels stepped out 
of his ^NTew Testament. 

At last they got on quite confidential terms. 

“What’s little missy’s name?” said Tom, at last, when 
he thought matters were ripe to push such an inquiry. 

“Evangeline St. Clare,” said the little one, “though papa 
and everybody else call me Eva. Now, what’s your name ?” 

“My name’s Tom; the little chil’en used to call me 
Uncle Tom, way back thar in Kentuck.” 

“Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, because, you see, 
1 like you,” said Eva. “So, Uncle Tom, where are you 
going?” 

“I don’t know, Miss Eva.” 

“Don’t know?” said Eva. 



Life Among the Lowly. 103 

“Xo. I am going to be sold to somebody. I don’t know 
who.” 

“My papa can buy you/’ said Eva, quickly; “and if he 


“What’s little Missy’s name?” 

buys you, you will have good times. 1 mean to ask him to, 
this very day.” 

“Thank you, my little lady,” said lorn. 

The boat here stopped at a small landing to take in 



104 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


wood, and Eva, hearing her father’s voice, bounded nim- 
bly away. Tom rose up, and went forward to offer his 
service in wooding, for by this time Haley allowed him to 
go about as he pleased on a sort of parole, and soon was 
busy among the hands. 

Eva and her father were standing together by the rail- 
ing to see the boat start from the landing-place, when, 
by some sudden movement, the little one suddenly lost 
her balance, and fell sheer over the side of the boat into 

the water. Her father, 
scarce knowing what he 
did, was plunging in after 
her, but was held back by 
some one behind him, who 
saw that more efficient aid 
had followed his child. 

Tom was standing just 
under her on the lower 
deck, as she fell. He saw 
her strike the water, 
and sink, and was 
after her in a moment. 
A broad-chested, strong-armed fellow, it was nothing 
for him to keep afloat in the water till, in a mo- 
ment or two, the child rose to the surface, and he 
caught her in his arms, and, swimming with her 
to the boat-side, handed her up, all dripping, to the 
grasp of hundreds of hands, which, as if they had all be- 
longed to one man, were stretched eagerly} out to receive 
her. A few moments more, and her father ibore her, drip- 
ping and senseless, to the ladies’ cabin. 



Life Among the Lowly. 


105 


The next day the steamer drew near to New Orleans, 
and on the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms 
folded, and anxiously, from time to time, turning his eyes 
towards a group on the other side of the boat. 

There stood the fair Evangeline, a little paler than the 
day before, but otherwise exhibiting no traces of the acci- 
dent which had befallen her. A graceful, elegantly-formed 
young man stood by her. carelessly leaning one elbow on a 
bale of cotton, while a large pocketbook lay open before 
him. It was quite evident, at a glance, that the gentleman 
was Eva’s father. He was listening to Haley, who was 
very volubly expatiating on the quality of the article for 
which they were bargaining. 

“All the inoral and Christian virtues bound in black 
morocco, complete!” he said, when Haley had finished. 
“Well, now, my good fellow, what ’s the damage, as they 
say in Kentucky? How much are you going to cheat mo, 
now? Out with it!” 

“Wal,” said Haley, “if I should say thirteen hundred 
dollars for that ar fellow, T should n’t but just save my- 
self; I should n’t, now, really.” 

“Papa, do buy him ! it ’s no matter what you pay,” whis- 
pered Eva, softly. “You have money enough, I know. I 
want him.” 

“What for, pussy ? Are you going to use him for a rat- 
tlebox, or a rocking-horse, or what ?” 

“I want to make him happy.” 

“An original reason, certainly.” 

Here the trader handed up a certificate, signed by Mr. 
Shelby, which the young man took with the tips of his 


106 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


fingers, and glanced over carelessly. “There, count your 
money,” said he, as he handed a roll of hills to the trader. 

“A1 right,” said Haley, his face beaming with delight: 
and pulling out an old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a 
bill of sale, which, in a few moments, he handed to the 
young man. 

“Come, Eva,” said St. Clare, and taking the hand of his 
daughter, he stepped across the boat, and carelessly put- 
ting the tip of his finger 
under Tom’s chin, said, 
good-humoredly, “Look 
up, Tom, and see how you 
like your new master.” 

Tom looked up, and the 
tears started in his eyes as 
lie said, heartily, “God 
bless you, Mas’r!” 

“Well, I hope He will. 
What ’s your name? 
Tom? Quite as likely 
to do it for your 
asking as mine, from all accounts. Can you drive horses, 
Tom ?” 

“I ’ve been allays used to horses,” said Tom. “Mas’r 
Shelby raised heaps on ’em.” 

“Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition 
that you won’t be drunk more than once a week, unless in 
cases of emergency, Tom.” 

Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said, “1 
never drink, Mas’r.” 



“Look up, Tom.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


107 


“I \e heard that story before, Tom ; but then we ’ll see. 
I don’t doubt you mean to do well.” 

‘T sartin do, Mas’r,” said Tom. 

“And you shall have good times,” said Eva. “Papa is 
very good to everybody, only he always will laugh at them.” 

“Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation,” 
said St. Clare, laughing, as he turned on his heel and 
walked away. 


CHAPTER XV. 

OF tom’s new master, and various other m.vtters. 

A ugustine ST. cl a re was the son of a wealthy 
planter of Louisiana. In childhood, he was 
remarkable for an extreme and marked sensi- 
tiveness of character. As he grew older he showed talent 
of the very first order, although his mind showed a 
preference always for the ideal and the gesthetic, and 
there was about him that repugnance to the actual 
business of life which is the common result of this 
balance of the faculties. Soon after the completion of his 
college course, he became the husband of the reigning 
belle of the season, who from infancy had been surrounded 
by servants who lived only to study her caprices. A beau- 


108 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


tiful daughter was born to them, but from the time of the 
birth of the child, Marie’s health gradually sank, and in a 
few years the blooming belle was changed into a yellow, 
faded, sickly woman. All family arrangements fell into 
the hands of servants, and St. Clare found his home any- 
thing but comfortable. His only daughter was exceedingly 
delicate, and fearing that her health and life might fall a 
sacrifice to her mother’s inefficiency, he had taken her 
with him on a tour to Vermont, and had persuaded his 
cousin. Miss Ophelia St. Clare, to return with him to his 
Southern residence. 

Miss Ophelia stands before you, in a very shining brown 
linen traveling dress, tall, square-formed and angular. Her 
face was thin, and rather sharp in its outlines; the lips 
compressed, like those of a person who is in the habit of 
making up her mind definitely on all subjects; while the 
keen, dark e,yes had a peculiarly searching, advised move- 
ment, and traveled over everything, as if they were looking 
for something to take care of. All her movements were 
sharp, decided and energetic; and, though she was never 
much of a talker, her words were remarkably direct, and 
to the purpose, Avhen she did speak. 

In her habits, she Avas a living impersonation of order, 
method, and exactness. In punctuality, she was as inevita- 
ble as a clock ; and she held in most decided contempt and 
abomination anything of a contrary character. 

The great sin of sins, in her eyes, — the sum of all evils, 
— Avas expressed by one very common and important Avord 
in her vocabulary — “shiftlessness.” 

“Now we ’re ready. Where ’s your papa? I think it 


Life Among the Lowly. 


109 


time this baggage was set out. Do look out, Eva, and see 
if you see your papa.” 

“0 yes, he ’s down the other end of the gentlemen’s 
cabin, eating an orange.” 

“He can’t know how near we are coming,” said aunty; 
“had n’t you better run and speak to him ?” 

“Papa never is in a hurry about anything,” said Eva, 
“and we have n’t come to the landing. Do step on the 



“Now we’re ready.” 


guards, aunty. Look ! there ’s our house, up that street !” 

“Yes, yes, dear; very fine,” said ]\[iss Ophelia. “But 
mercy on us! the boat has stopped! where is your father?” 

As the boat touched the wharf at New Orleans St. Clare 
appeared. 

“Well, Cousin Vermont, I suppose you are all ready.” 

“I ’ve been ready, waiting, nearly an hour,” said Miss 
Ophelia; “I began to be really concerned about you.” 


110 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


The party was soon seated in a carriage, and on the way 
to St. Clare’s home, 

“Where ’s Tom ?” said Eva. 

“Oh, he ’s on the outside. Pussy, • I ’m going to take 
Tom up to mother for a peace-offering, to make up for 
that drunken fellow that upset the carriage.” 

“0, Tom will make a splendid driver, I know,” said Eva ; 
“he ’ll never get drunk.” 

The carriage stopped in front of an ancient mansion, 
built in the Moorish fashion, — a square building enclosing 
a courtyard, into which the carriage drove through an 
arched gateway. Wide galleries ran all around the four 
sides, whose IMoorish arches, slender pillars, and arabesque 
ornaments, carried the mind back to the reign of oriental 
romance in Spain. In the middle of the court, a fountain 
tlirew high its silvery water. Two large orange trees, now 
fragrant with blossoms, threw a delicious shade; and, 
ranged in a circle round upon the turf, were marble vases 
containing the choicest flowering plants of the tropics. 

As the carriage drove in, Eva seemed like a bird ready 
to burst from a cage, with the wild eagerness of her 
delight. 

“0, is n’t it beautiful, lovely! my own dear, darling 
home !” she said to Miss Ophelia. “Is n’t it beautiful ?” 

“ ’T is a pretty place,” said Miss Ophelia, as she alight- 
ed ; “though it looks rather old and heathenish to me.” 

Tom got down from the carriage, and looked about with 
an air of calm, still enjoyment, 

“Tom, my boy, this seems to suit you,” said St, Clare. 

“Yes, Mas’r, it looks about the right thing,” said Tom. 

All this passed in a moment, while trunks were being 


Life Among the Lowly. 


Ill 


hustled off, hackmen paid, and while a crowd, of all ages 
and sizes, — men, women, and children, — came running 
through the galleries, both above and below, to see Mas'r 



Arrival at St. Clare’s mansion. 


come in. Foremost among them was a highly-dressed 
young mulatto man, attired in the extreme of fashion, and 
gracefully waving a scented handkerchief in his hand. 




112 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“Back! all of you. I am ashamed of you,” he said, in a 
tone of authority. “Would you intrude on Master’s do- 
mestic relations, in the first hour of his return ?” 

Owing to Mr. Adolph’s systematic arrangements, when 
St. Clare turned round from paying the hackman, there 
was nobody in view but Mr. Adolph himself, conspicuous 
in satin vest, gold guard-chain, and white pants, and bow- 
ing with inexpressible grace and suavity. 

“Ah, Adolph, is it you?” said his master, offering his 
hand to him; “how are you, boy?” while Adolph poured 
forth, with great fluency, an extemporary speech, which 
he had ])een preparing, with great care, for a fortnight 
before. 

“Well, well,” said St. Clare, passing on, with his usual 
air of negligent drollery, “that ’s very well got up, 
Adolph,” and, so saying, he led Miss Ophelia to a large 
parlor. Eva flew like a bird to a little boudoir. A tall, 
dark-eyed, sallow woman half rose from a couch on which 
she was reclining. “Mamma!” said she, embracing her 
over and over again. 

“That ’ll do, — take care, child, — don’t, you make my 
head ache,” said the mother, after she had languidly 
kissed her. 

St. Clare came in, embraced his wife in husbandly fash- 
ion, and then presented to her his cousin. Marie lifted her 
large eyes on her cousin with an air of some curiosity, and 
received her with languid politeness. A crowd of servants 
now pressed to the entry door, and among them a middle- 
aged mulatto woman, of very respectable appearance, stood 
foremost, in a tremor of expectation and joy, at the door. 

“0, there ’s Mammy!” said Eva, as she flew across the 


Life Among the Lowly. 113 

room; and, throwing herself into her arms, she kissed 
her repeatedly. 

“Well !” said ]\Iiss Ophelia, ‘Smu Southern children can 
do something that 1 could n’t.” 

“What now, pray?” said St. Clare. 

“Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I would n’t 
have anything hurt; but as 
to kissing — ” 

“Niggers,” said St. 

Clare, “that vou ’re not up 
to,— hey?” 

“Yes, that ’s it. How 
can she?” 

As St. Clare turned to, 
go back, his eye fell upon 
Tom, who was standing 
uneasily, shifting from one 
foot to the other, while 
Adolph stood negligently 
leaning against the banis- 
ters, examining Tom 
through an opera-glass, 
with an air that w^ould have done credit to any dandy 
living. 

“Puh, you puppy,” said his master, “is that the 
way you treat your company ? Seems to me, Dolph,” he 
added, laying his finger on the elegant figured satin vest 
that Adolph was sporting, “seems to me that ’s my vest.” 

“0! ^faster, this vest all stained; of course, a gentle- 
man in Master’s standing never wears a vest like this, I 
8 




114 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

imclorstood I was to take it. It does for a poor nigger- 
fellow, like me.” 

And Adolph tossed his head, and passed his fingers 
through his scented hair, with a grace. 

“So, that ’s it, is it?” said St. Clare, carelessly. “Well 
here, I ’m going to show this Tom to his mistress, and then 
YOU take him to the kitchen; and mind you don’t put on 
any of your airs to him. He ’s worth two siich puppies as 
you.” 

“See here, Marie,” said St. Clare to his Avife, “I’ve 
bought you a coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he ’s 
a regular hearse for blackness and sobriety, and will drive 
you like a funeral, if you want. Now, don’t say I never 
think about you when I’m gone.” 

“Well, I hope he may turn out well,” said the lady; “it ’s 
more than I expect, though.” 

“Holph,” said St. Clare, “show Tom downstairs; and, 
mind yourself,” he added ; “remember Avhat I told you.” 

Adolph tripped gracefully forward, and Tom, with lum- 
bering tread, went after. 

“He’s a perfect behemoth!” said Marie. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


115 


CHAPTER XVI. 

tom's mistress and her opinions. 

A nd now, Marie,” said St. Clare, "yonr golden days 
are dawning. Here is our practical, business-like 
Xew England cousin, who will take the whole 
budget of cares off your shoulders, and give you time to 
refresh yourself, and grow young and handsome. The 
ceremony of delivering the keys had better come off 
forthwith,” 

This remark was made at the breakfast table, a few 
mornings after Miss Ophelia had arrived. 

“I 'm sure she ’s welcome,” said Marie, leaning her head 
languidly on her hand. “I think she 'll find one thing, if 
she does, and that is, that it 's we mistresses that are 
ihe slaves, down here.” 

Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother’s 
face, and said, simply, “What do you keep them for, 
mamma ?” 

“I don’t know, I ’m sure, except for a plague; they are 
the plague of my life. I believe that more of my ill-health 
is caused by them than by any one thing; and ours, I 
know, are the very worst that ever anybody was plagued 
with.” 

“0, come,, Marie, you ’ve got the blues, this morning,’' 
said St. Clare. “You know ’t is n’t so. There ’s Mammy, 


116 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


the best creature living, — what could you do without her ?” 

“Now, Mammy has a sort of goodness,” said Marie; 
“she ’s smooth and respectful, but she ’s selfish at heart. 
Now, she never will be done fidgeting and worrying about 
that husband of hers. You see, when I was married and 

came to live here, of 

course, I had to bring her 

with me, and her husband 
my father could n’t spare. 
He was a blacksmith, and, 
of course, very necessary; 
and I thought and said, at 
the time, that Mammy and 
he had better give each 
other up, as it was n’t like- 
ly to be convenient for 

them ever to live together 
again. I wish now I’d 

insisted on it, and married 
Mammy to somebody else; 
but I was foolish and in- 
dulgent, and did n’t want 
to insist. I told Mammy, 
at the time, that she 
must n’t ever expect to see him more than once or twice 
in her life again, for the air of father’s place does n’t agree 
with my health, and I can’t go there ; and I advised her 
to take up with somebody else; but no — she would n’t. 
]\Iammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots, that 
everybody don’t see as I do.” 

“Has she children?” said Miss Ophelia. 





Life Among the Lowly. 117 

“Yes; she has two.” 

“I suppose she feels the separation from them ?” 

“Well, of course, I could n’t bring them. They were 


“Oh, Tom, you look so funny.’’ 

little dirty things — I could n’t have them about; and be- 
sides, they took up too much of her time; but I believe 
that Mammy lias always kept up a sort of sulkiness about 


118 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


this. She won’t marry anybody else; and I do believe, 
now, though she knows how necessary she is to me, and 
how feeble my health is, she would go back to her husband 
to-morrow, if she only could. I do, indeed,” said Marie; 
‘They are just so selfish, now, the best of them.” 

Miss Ophelia’s eyes expressed such undisguised amaze- 
ment at this speech that St. Clare burst into a loud laugh. 

“St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion 
to my ill-health,” said Marie, with the voice of a suffering 
mart 3 rr. “I only hope the day won’t come when he ’ll re- 
member it!” and Marie put her handkerchief to her eyes. 

Finally, St. Clare got up, looked at his watch, and said 
he had an engagement down street. Eva tripped away 
after him, and Miss Ophelia and Marie began a housewifely 
chat concerning cupboards, linen presses, store rooms, and 
other matters. 

One day a gay laugh from the court rang through the 
verandah. St. Clare stepped out, and laughed too. 

“What is it?” said Miss Ophelia, coming to the railing. 

There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every 
one of his buttonholes stuck full of cape jessamines, and 
Eva, laughing gayly, was hanging a wreath of roses round 
his neck ; and then she sat down on his knee still laughing. 

“0, Tom, you look so funny !” 

Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed to be 
enjoAung the fun quite as much as his little mistress. He 
lifted his eyes, when he saw his master, with a half- 
deprecating air. 

“How can vou let her?” said Miss Ophelia. 

“Why not?” said St. Clare. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


119 


“Why, I don’t know, it seems so dreadful !” 

“You would think no harm in a child’s caressing a large 
dog, even if he was black; but a creature that can think, 
and reason, and feel, and is immortal, you shudder at; 
confess it, cousin. I know the feeling among some of you 
Northerners well enough. Not that there is a particle of 
virtue in our not having it; but custom with us does what 
Christianity ought to do, — obliterates the feeling of per- 
sonal prejudice. I have often noticed, in my travels 
North, how much stronger this was with you than with 
us. You loathe them as you would a snake or a toad, yet 
you are indignant at their wrongs. Y^ou would not have 
them abused; but you don’t want to have anything to do 
with them yourselves. You would send them to Africa, 
out of your sight and smell, and then send a missionary 
or two to do up all the self-denial of elevating them com- 
pendiously. Is n’t that it?” 

“Well, cousiu,” said ]\riss Ophelia, thoughtfully, “there 
may be some truth in this.” 

“What would the poor aud lowly do, without children?” 
said St. Clare, leaning on the railing and watching Eva, 
as she tripped off, leading Tom with her. “Your little 
child is your only true democrat. Tom, now, is a hero to 
Eva; his stories are wonders in her eyes, his songs and 
hymns are better than an opera, and the traps and little 
bits of trash in his pocket a mine of jewels, and he the 
most wonderful Tom that ever wore a hlack skin. This is 
one of the roses of Eden that the T;ord has dropped down 
expressly for the poor and lowly, who get few enough of 
any other kind.” 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


ISO 

Marie always made a point to be very pious on Sundays. 
There she stood, so slender, so elegant, so airy, and undu- 
lating in all her motions, her lace scarf enveloping her 
like a mist. She looked a graceful creature, and she felt 
very good and very elegant indeed. Miss Ophelia stood 
at her side, a perfect contrast. It was not that she had 
not as handsome a silk dress and shawl, and as fine a 
pocket handkerchief; but stiffness and squareness, and 
bolt-uprightness, enveloped her with as indefinite yet 
appreciable a presence as did grace her elegant neighbor; 
not the grace of God, however, — that is quite another 
thing! ‘‘Where’s Eva?” said she. 

The child had stopped on the stairs to say to IMammy: 
“Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully.” 

“Lord bless you. Miss Eva ! my head allers aches lately. 
You don’t need to worry.” 

“Well, I ’m glad you ’re going out ; and here,” — and the 
little girl threw her arms around her — “Mamm}’, you shall 
take my vinaigrette.” 

“What I your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them dia- 
monds ! lior. Miss, ’t would n’t'be proper, no ways.” 

“Why not? You need it, and T don’t. ]\[amma. always 
uses it for headache, and it ’ll make you feel better. Yo, 
you shall take it, to please me, now.” 

“Do hear the darlin’ talk !” said ^Ifammy, as Eva thrust 
it into her hand, and, kissing her, ran downstairs to her 
mother. 

“What were you stopping for?” 

“T was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to 
take to church with her.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 121 

“Eva!” isaid iVlarie, stamping impatiently, — “your gold 
vinaigrette to Mammy ! When will you learn vdiat ’s prop- 



“Miss Ophelia stood at her side.” 

er ? Go right and take it back, this moment !” 

Eva looked downcast and aggrieved, and turned slowly. 


122 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; oi 


‘T say, Marie, let the child alone; she shall do as she 
wishes,” said St. Clare. 

“St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world?” 
said ]\[arie. 

“The Lord knows,” said St. Clare; “but she ’ll get along 
in heaven better than you or I.” 

“0, papa, don’t,” said Eva, softly touching his elbow; 
“it troubles mother.” 

“Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting?” said 
Miss Ophelia, turning square about on St. Clare. 

“I ’m not going, thank you.” 

“I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church,” said 
Marie; “but he has n’t a particle of religion about him. 
It really is n’t respectable.” 

“I know it,” said St. Clare. “Positively, it ’s too much 
to ask of a man. Eva, do you like to go? Come, stay at 
home and play with me.” 

“Thank you, papa ; but I ’d rather go to church.” 

“Is n’t it dreadful tiresome?” said St. Clare. 

“I think it is tiresome, some,” said Eva, “and I am 
sleepy, too, but I try to keep awake.” 

“What do you go for, then?” 

“Why, you know, papa,” she said, in a whisper, “cousin 
told me that God wants to have us ; and He gives us every- 
thing, you know; and it is n’t much to do it, if He wants 
us to. It is n’t so very tiresome, after all.” 

“You sweet, little obliging soul!” said St. Clare, kissing 
her; “go along, that ’s a good girl, and pray for me.” 

“Well, ladies,” said St. Clare, as they were comfortably 


Life Among the Lowly. 


123 


seated at the dinner-table, “and what was the bill of fare 
at church to-day?” 

“0, Dr. G preached a splendid sermon,” said Marie. 

“It was just such a sermon as you ought to hear; it ex- 
pressed all my views exactly.” 

“It must have been very improving,” said St Clare. 
“The subject must have been an extensive one.” 

“Well, I mean all my views about society, and such 
things,” said Marie. “The text was, ‘He hath made every- 
thing beautiful in its season;’ and he showed how all the 
orders and distinctions in society came from God; and that 
it was so appropriate, you know, and beautiful, that some 
should be high and some low, and that some were born to 
rule and some to serve, and all that, you know; and he ap- 
plied it so well to all this ridiculous fuss that is made about 
slavery, and he proved distinctly that the Bible was on 
our side, and supported all our institutions so convincingly. 
I only wish you’d heard him.” 

“I say, what do you think. Pussy?” said her father to 
Eva, who came in at this moment. 

“What about. Papa?” 

“Why, which do you like the best, — to live as they do 
at your uncle’s, up in Vermont, or to have a house full of 
servants, as we do ?” 

“0, of course, our way is the pleasantest,” said Eva. 

“Why so ?” said St. Clare, stroking her head. 

“Why, it makes so many more round you to love, you 
know,” said Eva, looking up earnestly. 

“Now, that’s just like Eva,” said Marie; “just one of 
her odd speeches.” 


124 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“Is it an odd speech, papa ?” said Eva, whisperingly, as 
she got upon his knee. 

“Tlather, as this world goes. Pussy,” said St. Clare. 
“Blit where has my little Eva been, all dinner-time?” 

“0, I ’ve been up in Tom’s room, hearing him sing, and 
Aunt Dinah gave me my dinner.” 

“Hearing Tom sing, hey?” 

“0, yes! he sings such beautiful things about the New 
Jerusalem, and bright angels, and the land of Canaan.” 

“I dare say; it ’s better than the opera, is n’t it?” 

“Yes, and he ’s going to teach them to me.” 

“Singing lessons, hey? — you are coming on.” 

“Yes, he sings for me, and T read to him in my Bible; 
and he explains what it means, you know.” 

“On my word,” said Marie, laughing, “that is the latest 
joke of the season.” 


CHAPTEB XYII. 

THE freeman’s DEFENCE. 

T he afternoon shadows stretched eastward, and the 
round red sun stood thoughtfully on the horizon, 
and his beams shone yellow and calm into the 
little bed-room where George and his wife were sitting. 
“When we get to Canada,” said Eliza, “I can help you. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


125 


I can do dress-making very well; and I understand fine 
washing and ironing; and between us we can find some- 
thing to live on.” 

‘‘Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other and our hoy. 



“We are not yet in Canada.” 


0! Eliza, if these people only knew what a blessing it is 
for a man to feel that his wife and child belong to him! 
I’ve often wondered to see men that could call their wives 
and children their own fretting and worrying about any- 

E 


1 ^ 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


thing else. Why, I feel rich and strong, though we have 
nothing but our bare hands. I feel as if I could scarcely 
ask God for any more.” 

‘"But yet we are not quite out of danger,” said Eliza; 
“we are not yet in Canada.” 

“True,” said George, ‘T)ut it seems as if I smelt the free 
air, and it makes me strong.” 

At this moment, voices were heard in the outer apart- 
ment, in earnest conversation, and very soon a rap was 
heard on the door. Eliza started and opened it. 

Simeon Halliday was there, and with him a Quaker 
brother, whom he introduced as Phineas Fletcher. 
Phineas was tall and red-haired, with an expression of 
great acuteness and shrewdness in his face. 

“Our friend Phineas hath discovered something of im- 
portance to the interests of thee and thy party, George,” 
said Simeon; “it were Avell for thee to hear it.” 

“That T have,” said Phineas. “Last night I stopped at 
a little lone tavern, back on the road, and, after my sup- 
per, I stretched myself down on a pile of bags in the 
corner, and pulled a buffalo robe over me, to wait till my 
bed was ready; and what does I do, but get fast asleep. T 
slept for an hour or two, for T Avas pretty aatII tired; but 
when I came to myself a little, I found that there were 
some men in the room, drinking and talking; and I 
thought I’d just see Avhat they Avere up to. ‘So,’ says 
one, ‘they are up in the Quaker settlement, no doubt.’ 
Then I listened with both ears, and I found that they were 
talking about this very party. So I lay and heard them 
lay off all their plans. They’ve got a right notion of the 


Life Among the Lowly. 


127 


track we are going to-night; and they’ll be down after us, 
six or eight strong. So, now, what’s to be done ?” 

‘‘What shall we do, George ?” said Eliza, faintly. 

“I know what I shall do,” said George, as he stepped into 
the little room, and began examining his pistols. 

'‘-Vg ay,” said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon; 
“thou seest, Simeon, how it will work.” 

“I see,” said Simeon, sighing; “I pray it come not to 
that.” 

“I don’t want to involve any one with or for me,” said 
George. “If you will lend me your vehicle and direct me, 
I will drive alone to the next stand. Jim is a giant in 
strength, and brave as death and despair, and so am I.” 

“Ah, well, friend,” said Phineas, “but thee’ll need a 
driver, for all that.” 

“Phineas is a wise and skillful man,” said Simeon. 
“Thee does well, George, to abide by his judgment; and,” 
he added, laying his hand kindly on George’s shoulder, 
and pointing to the pistols, “be not over hasty with these.” 

“I will attack no man,” said George. “All I ask of this 
country is to be let alone, and T will go out peaceably; 
but, I’ve had a sister sold in that jSTew Orleans market. 
I know what they are sold for; and am I going to stand 
by and see them take my wife and sell her, when God has 
given me a pair of strong arms to defend her? No; God 
help me! I’ll light to the last breath, before they shall 
take my Avife and son. Can you blame me?” 

“Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and 
blood could not do otherwise,” said Simeon. 

“Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place?” 


1-28 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

“1 pray that I be not tried/’ said Simeon; “the flesh is 
weak.” 

“I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong, in 
such a case,” said Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms 
like the sails of a windmill. “I an’t sure, friend George, 
that I shouldn’t hold a fellow for thee, if thee had any 
accounts to settle with him.” 

“Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own,” said 
Rachel Halliday, smiling. 

“Well,” said George, “isn’t it best that we hasten our 
flight ?” 

“It isn’t safe to start till dark, at any rate ; for there are 
some evil persons in the villages ahead, that might he 
disposed to meddle with us, if they saw our wagon, and 
that would delay us more than the waiting; but in two 
hours T think we may venture. I will go over to Michael 
Cross, and engage him to come behind on his swift nag, 
and keep a bright look-out on the road, and warn us if 
any company of men come on. I am going out now to 
warn Jim and the old woman to be in readiness, and to 
see about the horse. We have a pretty fair start, and 
stand a good chance to get to the stand before they can 
come up with us. So, have good courage, friend George; 
this isn’t the first ugly scrape that I’ve been in with thy 
people,” said Phineas, as he closed the door. 

“Phineas is pretty shrewd,” said Simeon. “He will do 
the best that can be done for thee, George. And now, 
mother,” said he, turning to Rachel, “hurry thy prepara- 
tions for these friends, for we must not send them away 
fasting.” 


1^9 


Life Among the Lowly, 

As they were sitting down to the supper table, a light 
tap sounded at the door, and Ruth entered. 

‘‘I just ran in,"" she said, 'Vith these little stockings for 
the boy, — three pair, nice, warm woolen ones. It will be 
so cold, thee knows, in Canada. Does thee keep up good 
courage, Eliza ?"" she added, tripping round to Eliza"s side 
of the table, and shaking her warmly by the hand, and 
slipping a seed-cake into Harry"s hand. “I brought a 
little parcel of these for him,"" she said, tugging at her 
pocket to get out the package. “Children, thee knows, 
will always be eating."" 

“0, thank you; you are too kind,"" said Eliza. 

“Come, Ruth, sit down to supper,"" said Rachel. 

“T couldn"t, any way. So, good-by, Eliza; good-by, 
George; the Lord grant thee a safe journey;"" and Ruth 
left the room. 

A little while after supper, a large covered-wagon drew 
up before the door. Eliza was handed into the carriage by 
Simeon, and, creeping into the hack part with her boy, 
sat down among the buffalo-skins. The old woman was 
next handed in and seated, and George and Jim placed on 
a rough board seat front of them, and Phineas mounted 
in front. 

“Farewell, my friends,"" said Simeon, from without. 

“God bless you!"" answered all from within. 

The wagon drove off, rattling and jolting over the frozen 
road, over wide, dreary plains, — up hills, and down val- 
leys, — and on, on, on they jogged, hour after hour. 

About three o"cloek George"s ear caught the hasty and 
decided click of a horse"s hoof coming behind them at some 
distance. Phineas pulled up his horses, and listened. 


130 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


^‘That must be Michael,” he said; ‘T think I know the 
sound of his gallop;” and he rose up and stretched his 
head anxiously back over the road. 

A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at 
the top of a distant hill. 

^‘There he is, I do believe!” said Phineas. George and 
Jim both sprang out of the wagon, before they knew what 
they were doing. On he came. 

“Yes, that’s ]\Iichael!” said Phineas; and, raising his 
voice, “Halloa, there, Michael!” 

“Phineas! is that thee?” 

“Yes; what news — they coming?” 

“Eight on behind, eight or ten of them, hot with brandy, 
swearing and foaming like so many wolves.” 

“Tn with you, — quick, boys, in !” said Phineas. “If you 
must fight, wait till I get you a piece ahead.” And, with 
the words, both jumped in, and Phineas lashed the horses 
to a run, the horseman keeping close beside them. The 
pursuers gained on them fast ; the carriage made a sudden 
turn, and brought them near a ledge of a steep overhang- 
ing rock, that rose in an isolated ridge or clump, which 
seemed to promise shelter and concealment. It was a 
place well known to Phineas, and it was to gain this point 
• he had been racing his horses. 

“How for it!” said he, suddenly checking his horses, 
and springing from his seat to the ground. “Out with 
you, in a twinkling, every one, and up into these rocks with 
me. ]\[ichael, thee tie thy horse to the wagon, and drive 
ahead to Amariah’s, and get him and his boys to come 
back and talk to these fellows.” 

In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


131 


^‘There/’ said Phineas, catching up Harry, ‘‘you, each 
of you, see to the women; and run, now, if you ever did 
run !” 

“Come ahead,” said Phineas, as they saw, in the mingled 
starlight and dawn, the traces of a rude but plainly marked 
foot-path leading up among them; “this is one of our old 
hunting-dens. Come up!” 

Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat, 
with the boy in his arms. Jim came second, bearing his 
trembling old mother over his shoulder, and George and 
Eliza brought up the rear. The party of horsemen came 
up to the fence, and, with mingled shouts and oaths, were 
dismounting, to prepare to follow them. A few moments’ 
scrambling brought them to the top of the ledge; the 
path then passed between a narrow defile, where only one 
could walk at a time, till suddenly they came to a rift or 
chasm more than a yard in breadth, and beyond which lay 
a pile of rocks, separate from the rest of the ledge, stand- 
ing full thirty feet high, with its sides steep and perpen- 
dicular as those of a castle. Phineas easily leaped the 
chasm, and sat down the boy on a smooth, flat platform 
of crisp white moss, that covered the top of the rock. 

“Over with you !” he called ; “spring, now, once, for your 
lives !” said he, as one after another sprang across. Several 
fragments of loose stone formed a kind of breast-work, 
which sheltered their position from the observation of 
those below. 

“Well, here we all are,” said Phineas, “Let ’em get us, 
if they can. Wlioever comes here has to walk single file 
between those two rocks, in fair range of your pistols, boys, 
d’ye see ?” 


132 


Uncle Toni’s Cabin; or 


“1 do see,” said George; “and now, as this matter is 
ours, let us take all the risk, and do all the fighting.” 

“Thee’s quite welcome to do the fighting, George,” said 
Phineas, “but I may have the fun of looking on, I sup- 
pose. But see, these fellows are kinder debating down 
there. Hadn’t thee better give ’em a word of advice, be- 
fore thev come up, just to tell ’em thev’ll be shot if they 
do?” 

The party beneath consisted of our old acquaintances, 
Tom Loker and Marks, with two constables, and a posse 
consisting of such rowdies as could be engaged by a little 
brandy to go and help the fun of trapping a set of nig- 
gers. 

At this moment, George appeared on the top of a rock 
above them, and speaking in a calm, clear voice, said, 

“Gentlemen, who are you, down there, and what do you 
want?” 

“We want a party of runaway niggers,” said Tom Loker. 
“One George Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and 
Jim Selden, and an old woman. We’ve got the officers, 
here, and a warrant to take ’em; and we’re going to have 
’em, too. D’ye hear? An’t you George Harris, that be- 
longs to Mr. Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky ?” 

“I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, did 
call me his property. But now I’m a free man, standing 
on God’s free soil; and my wife and my child I claim as 
mine. Jim and his mother are here. We have arms to 
defend ourselves, and we mean to do it. You can come 
up, if you like ; but the first one of you that comes within 
the range of our bullets is a dead man, and the next and 
the next; and so on till the last.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


133 


“0, come ! come !” said a short puify man, stepping for- 
ward, and blowing his nose as he did so. “Young man, 
this an’t no kind of talk at all for you. You see, we’re 
officers of justice. We’ve got the law on our side, so you’d 
better give up peaceably, you see.” 

“I know very well that you’ve got the law on your side, 
and the power,” said George, bitterly. “You mean to take 
my wife to sell in New Orleans, and put my hoy like a calf 
in a trader’s pen, and send Jim’s old mother to the brute 
that whipped and abused her before, because he couldn’t 
abuse her son. You want to send Jim and me hack to 
be whipped and tortured, and ground down under the heels 
of them that you call masters ; and your laws will hear you 
out in it, — more shame for you and them! But you 
haven’t got us. We don’t own your laws; we don’t own 
your country; we stand here as free, under God’s sky, as 
you are ; and, by the great God that made us, we’ll fight for 
our liberty till we die.” 

The attitude, eye, voice, manner, of the speaker, for a 
moment struck the party below to silence. Marks was 
the only one who remained wholly untouched. He was 
deliberately cocking his pistol, and, in the silence that 
followed George’s speech, he fired at him. 

“Ye see ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in 
Kentucky,” he said, coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his 
coat-sleeve. 

George sprang backward, — Eliza uttered a shriek, — the 
ball had passed close to his hair, had nearly grazed the 
cheek of his wife, and struck in the tree above. 

“It’s nothing, Eliza,” said George, quickly. 

‘‘Now, Jim,” said George, “look that your pistols are 


134 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


all right, and watch that pass with me. The first man 
that shows himself I fire at; you take the second, and so 
on. It won’t do, you know, to waste two shots on one.” 

“But what if you don’t hit?” 

“I shall hit,” said George, coolly. 

“Good! now, there’s stuff in that fellow,” muttered 
Phineas, between his teeth. 

The party below, after Marks had fired, stood, for a 
moment, rather undecided. 

“I think you must have hit some on’em,” said one of the 
men. “I heard a squeal!” 

“I’m going right up for one,” said Tom. “I never was 
afraid of niggers, and I an’t going to be now.” 

One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom, 
and, the way being thus made, the whole party began 
pushing up the rock. On they came, and in a moment the 
burly form of Tom appeared in sight, almost at the verge 
of the chasm. 

George fired, — the shot entered his side, — ^but, though 
wounded, he would not retreat, but, with a yell like that of 
a mad bull, he was leaping right across the chasm into the 
party. 

“Friend,” said Phineas, suddenly stepping to the front, 
and meeting him with a push from his long arms, “thee 
isn’t wanted here.” 

Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among 
trees, , bushes, logs, loose stones, till he lay, bruised and 
groaning, thirty feet below. The fall might have killed 
him, had it not been broken by his clothes catching in the 
branches of a large tree; but he came down with some 
force, however, — more than was at all agreeable. 



136 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


"T say, fellers,” said Marks, “you jist go round and pick 
up Tom, there, while I run and get on to my horse, to go 
back for help,” and, without minding the hootings and 
jeers of his company, Marks galloped away. 

“Was ever such a sneaking varmint?” said one of the 
men; “to come on his business, and he clear out and leave 
us this yer way!” 

“Well, Ave must pick up that feller,” said another. 

The men, led by the groans of Tom, scrambled to where 
he lay groaning. 

“Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom,” said one. “Ye 
much hurt?” 

“Don’t know. Get me up, can’t ye ? Blast that infernal 
Quaker ! If it hadn’t been for him, I’d a pitched some on 
’em down here, to see hoAV they liked it.” 

With much labor he was assisted to rise; and, with one 
holding him up under each shoulder, they got him as far 
as the horses. 

“If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern. ' 
Give me a handkerchief or something, to stuff into this 
place, and stop this infernal bleeding.” 

George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to 
lift the burly form of Tom into the saddle. After two or 
three ineffectual attempts, he reeled, and fell heavily to 
the ground. 

“0, I hope he isn’t killed!” said Eliza. 

“On my word, they’re leaving him, I do believe,” said 
rhineas. 

It was true; for after some consultation, the whole 
party got on their horses and rode away. When they were 
quite out of sight, Phineas began to bestir himself. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


137 


“Well, we must go down and walk a piece,^’ he said. 
“I told Michael to go forward and bring help, and be along 
back here with the wagon; but we shall have to walk a 
piece along the road, I reckon to meet them. The Lord 
grant he be along soon !” 

As the party neared the fence, they discovered in the 
distance, along the road, their own wagon coming back, 
accompanied by some men on horseback. 

“Well, now, there’s Michael, and Stephen, and Ama- 
riah !” exclaimed Phineas, Joyfully. “Kow we are as safe 
as if we’d got there.” 

“Well, do stop, then,” said Eliza, “and do something for 
that poor man; he’s groaning dreadfully.” 

“It would be no more than Christian,” said George; 
“let’s take him up and carry him on.” 

“And doctor him up among the Quakers !” said Phineas ; 
“Well, I don’t care if we do.” And Phineas, who, in the 
course of his backwoods life, had acquired some rude ex- 
perience of surgery, kneeled down by the wounded man, 
and began a careful examination of his condition. 

“Marks,” said Tom, feebly, “is that you, Marks?” 

“1^0 ; I reckon ’t an’t, friend,” said Phineas. “Much 
]\Tarks cares for thee, if his own skin’s safe. He’s off, long 
ago.” 

“I believe I’m done for,” said Tom. “The sneaking dog, 
to leave me to die alone ! My poor old mother always told 
me ’t would be so.” 

“La sakes ! Jist hear the poor crittur. He’s got a mam- 
my, now,” said the old negress. “I can’t help kinder 
pityin’ on him.” 

“Softly, softly; don’t thee snap and snarl, friend,” said 


138 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


Phineas, as Tom winced and pushed his hand away. “Thee 
has no chance, unless I stop the bleeding.” 

“You pushed me down there,” said Tom, faintly. 

“Well, if I hadn’t, thee would have pushed us down, 
thee sees,” said Phineas. “There, let me fix this bandage. 
We mean well to thee; we bear no malice. Thee shall be 
taken to a house where . they’ll nurse thee first rate, — as 
well as thy own mother could.” 

The other party now came up. The seats were taken out 
of the wagon, and four men, with great difficulty, lifted 
the heavy form of Tom into it. Before he was gotten in, 
he fainted entirely. 

“What do you think of him?” said George, who sat by 
Phineas in front. 

“Well, it’s only a pretty deep flesh-wound; but, then, 
tumbling and scratching down that place didn’t help him 
much; but he’ll get over it, and may be learn a thing or 
two by it.” 

“What shall you do with him?” said George. 

“0, carry him along to Amariah’s. There’s old Grand- 
mam Stephens there, — Dorcas, they call her, — she’s most 
an amazin’ nurse. She takes to nursing real natural, and 
an’t never better suited than when she gets a sick body to 
tend.” 

A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a 
neat farm house, where the weary travellers found an 
abundant breakfast. Tom Loker was soon carefully de- 
posited in a much cleaner and softer bed than he had ever 
been in the habit of occupying. His wound was carefully 
dressed and bandaged, and he lay languidly opening and 


Life Among the Lowly. 


139 


shutting his eyes on the white window curtains and gently 
gliding figures of his sick room, like a weary child. 



“Languidly opening and shutting his eyes.” 


140 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

MISS Ophelia’s experiences and opinions. 

T om soon won the confidence of St. Clare and grad- 
ually all the marketing and providing for the 
family were entrusted to him. He had every 
facility and temptation to dishonesty; but his impregna- 
ble simplicity of nature, strengthened by Christian faith 
kept him from it. 

One evening St, Clare attended a convivial party and 
was helped home between one and two o’clock, and put to 
bed by Adolph and Tom. 

“Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?” said St. Clare, 
the next day, as he sat in his library. He had just been 
entrusting Tom with some money, and various commis- 
sions. “Isn’t all right there, Tom?” he added, as Tom 
still stood waiting, 

“I’m ’fraid not, Mas’r,” said Tom, with a grave face. 
St. Clare laid down his paper, and looked at Tom. 
“Why, Tom, what’s the case? You look as solemn as a 
coffin.” 

“I feel very bad, Mas’r. I always have thought that 
Mas’r would be good to everybody.” 

“Well, Tom, haven’t I been? Come, now, what do you 
want? 


141 


Life Among the Lowly, 

"‘Mas’r allays been good to me. I haven’t nothing to 
complain of, on that head. But there is one that Mas’r 
isn’t good to.” 

^AVhy, Tom, what’s got into you? Speak out; what do 
you mean?” 

“Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I 
studied upon the matter then. Mas’r isn’t good to him- 
self.” 



“O. my dear young Mas’r!” 

St, Clare felt his face flush crimson, hut he laughed. 

“Oh, that’s all, is it?” he said, gayly, 

“All!” said Tom, turning suddenly round, and falling 
on his knees. “0, my dear young Mas’r! I’m ’fraid it 
will he loss of all — all — body and soul. The good Book 
says, flt hiteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder!’ 
my dear Mas’r !” 

Tom’s voice choked and the tears ran down his cheeks. 


142 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


^‘You poor, silly fool!” said St. Clare, with tears in his 
own eyes. ‘‘Get up, Tom. I’m not worth crying over.” 

But Tom wouldn’t rise, and looked imploring. 

“Well, I won’t go to any more of their cursed non- 
sense, Tom,” said St. Clare; “on my honor, I won’t. I 
don’t know why I haven’t stopped long ago. I’ve always 
despised it, and myself for it. There, I’ll pledge my honor 
to you, Tom, you don’t see me so again,” he said; and 
Tom went off, Aviping his eyes with great satisfaction. 

“I’ll keep my faith with him, too,” said St. Clare, as he 
closed the door. 

And he did, — for gross sensualism, in any form, Avas 
not the peculiar temptation of his nature. 

MeanAvhile, our friend Miss Ophelia had begun the 
labors of a Southern housekeeper, and her first visit Avas 
to the domains of Dinah, the cook. 

Dinah, who required large intervals of reffection and 
repose, and Avas studious of ease in all her arrangements, 
was seated on the kitchen floor, smoking a short, stumpy 
pipe, to Avhich she was much addicted, and which she 
always kindled up, as a sort of censer whenever she felt 
the need of an inspiration in her arrangements. 

When Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen, Dinah did not 
rise, but smoked on in sublime tranquility. 

Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set qf drawers. 

“What is this drawer for, Dinah ?” she said. 

“It’s handy for most anything, Missis,” said Dinah. 
Miss Ophelia pulled out first a fine damask table-cloth 
stained Avith blood, having evidently been used to envelop 
some raw meat. 



143 


Seated on the kitchen floor, sn\oking a shoi^, stumpy pipe. 



144 , 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin ; or 


“What’s this, Dinah ? You don’t wrap up meat in your 
mistress’ best table-cloths?” 

“0, Lor, Missis, no; the towels was all a missin’, — so I 
jest did it. I laid out to wash that ar, — that’s why I put 
it Thar.” 

“Shif’less!” said Miss Ophelia to herself, proceeding to 
tumble over the drawer, where she found a nutmeg-grater 
and two or three nutmegs, a Methodist hymn-book, a 
couple of soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some yarn and 
knitting-work, a paper of tobacco and a pipe, a few crack- 
ers, one or two gilded china-saucers with some pomade in 
them, one or two thin old shoes, a piece of flannel carefully 
pinned up enclosing some small white onions, several 
damask table-napkins, some coarse crash towels, some 
twine and darning-needles, and several broken papers, 
from which sundry sweet herbs were sifting into the 
drawer. 

“Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah?” said Miss 
Ophelia, with the air of one who prayed for patience. 

“Most any whar. Missis ; there’s some in that cracked tea- 
cup, up there, and there’s some over in that ar cupboard.” 

“Here are some in the grater,” said Miss Ophelia, hold- 
ing them up. 

“Laws, yes, I put ’em there this morning, — I likes to 
keep my things handy,” said Dinah. “You, Jake! what 
are you stopping for! You’ll cotch it! Be still, thar!” 
she added, with a dive of her stick at the criminal. 

“What’s this ?” said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer 
of pomade. 

“Laws, it’s my liar grease; — I put it thar to have it 
handy.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


145 


“Do you use your mistress’ best saucers for that?” 

“Law! it was cause I was driv, and in sich a hurry; — I 
was gwine to change it this very day.” 

“Here are two damask table-napkins.” 

“Them table-napkins I put thar, to get ’em washed out, 
some day.” 

“Don’t you have some place here on purpose for things 
to be washed?” 

“Well, Mas’r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat; 
but I likes to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some 
days, and then' it an’t handy a liftin’ up the lid.” 

“Why don’t you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table, 
there ?” 

^‘Law, Missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thing 
and another, der an’t no room, noways — ” 

“But you should wash your dishes, and clear them 
away.” 

“Wash my dishes!” said Dinah, in a high key; “what 
does ladies know ’bout work, I want to know? When’d 
Mas’r ever get his dinner, if I was to spend all my time a 
washin’ and a puttin’ up dishes ?” 

]\riss Ophelia lifted out the papers of sweet herbs. 

“If Missis only will go upstairs till my clarin’ up time 
comes. I’ll have everything right; but I can’t do nothin’ 
when ladies is round, a henderin’.” 

“I’m going through the kitchen, and going to put every- 
thing in order, once, Dinah ; and then I’ll expect you to 
Keep it so.” 

“Lor, now! Miss Phelia; dat ar an’t no way for ladies to 
do,” and Dinah stalked indignantly about, while Miss 
Ophelia piled and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of scatter- 


146 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


ing bowls of sugar into one receptacle, sorted napkins, 
table-cloths, and towels, for washing; washing, wiping, 
and arranging with her own haijds, and with a speed and 
alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah. 

To do Dinah justice, she had, at irregular periods, 
paroxysms of reformation and arrangement, which she 
called ‘‘clarin’ up times,” when she would begin with great 
zeal, and turn every drawer and closet wrong side outward, 
on to the floor or tables, and make the ordinary confusion 
seven-fold more confounded. 

Miss Ophelia, in a few days, thoroughly reformed every 
department of the house; but her labors in all depart- 
ments that depended on the co-operation of servants were 
herculean. 

As ]\tiss Ophelia was in the kitchen in the latter part 
of the afternoon, some of the sable children called out, 
“La, sakes! thar’s Prue a coming, grunting along like she 
allers does.” 

A tall, bony colored woman noAv entered the kitchen, 
hearing on her head a basket of rusks and hot rolls. 

“Ho, Prue! you’ve come,” said Dinah. 

Prue set do-wn her basket, squatted herself down, and 
resting her elbows on her knees said, 

“0 Lord! I wish’t I’s dead!” 

“Why do your wish you were dead ?’' said Miss Ophelia. 

“I’d be out o’ my misery,” said the woman, gruffly. 

“What need you getting drunk, then, and cutting up, 
Prue?” said a spruce quadroon chambermaid. 

“Maybe you’ll come to it, one of these yer days. I’d be 
glad to see you, I would ; then you’ll be glad of a drop, like 
me, to forget your misery.” — 


Life Among the Lowly. 


147 


‘‘Come, Prue/’ said Dinah, “let’s look at your rusks. 
Here’s Missis will pay for them.” 

Miss Ophelia took out a couple of dozen. 

“They counts my money, when I gets home, to see if I’se 
got the change; and if 1 han’t, they half kills me.” 

“And serves you right,” said the pert chambermaid, “if 
you will take their money to get drunk on.” 

“You are very wicked and very foolish,” said Miss Ophe- 



“I wish’t I’s dead!” 


lia, “to steal your master’s money to make yourself a brute 
with.” 

“It’s mighty likely, Missis; hut I will do it, yes, 1 
will. 0 Lord! I wish I’s dead, I do,— I wish I’s dead, 
and out of my misery!” and slowly and stiffly the old crea- 
ture rose, and got her basket on her head again. 

“I wish,” said Tom, looking at her earnestly,— “I wish 
I could persuade you to leave off drinking. Don’t you 
know it will be the ruin of ye, body and soul ?” 


148 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“I knows I’m gwine to torment,” said the woman, sul- 
lenly. ‘‘Ye don’t need to tell me that ar. I’s ugly, — I’s 
wicked — I’s gwine straight to torment. 0, Lord! I wish 
I’s thar!” 

“0, ye poor crittur!” said Tom, “han’t nobody never 
telled ye how the Lord Jesus loved ye, and died for ye? 
Han’t they telled ye that He’ll help ye, and ye can go to 
heaven, and have rest, at last?” 

“I looks like gwine to heaven,” said the woman; “an’t 
thar where white folks is gwine ? S’pose they’d have me 
thar ? I’d rather go to torment, and get away from Mas’r 
and Missis. I had so,” she said, as, with her usual groan, 
she got her basket on her head, and walked sullenly away. 

Tom turned, and walked sorrowfully back to the house. 
In the court he met little Eva, — a crown of tuberoses on 
her head, and her eyes radiant with delight. 

“0, Tom ! here you are. I’m glad I’ve found you. Papa 
says you may get out the ponies, and take me in my little 
new carriage,” she said, catching his hand. “But what’s 
the matter, Tom ? — you look sober.” 

“I feel bad. Miss Eva,” said Tom, sorrowfully. “But 
I’ll get the horses for you.” 

“But do tell me, Tom, what is the matter. I saw you 
talking to cross old Prue.” 

Tom, in simple, earnest phrase, told Eva the woman’s 
history. She did not exclaim, or wonder, or weep, as other 
children do. Her cheeks grew pale, and a deep, earnest 
shadow passed over her eyes. She laid both hands on her 
bosom, and sighed heavily. 


V 


Life Among the Lowly. 


149 


CHAPTEK XIX. 

MISS Ophelia's experiences and opinions, continued. 

T om, you needn’t get me the horses. I don’t want to 
go,” she said. 

“Why not. Miss Eva?” 

“These things sink into my heart, Tom,” said Eva, — 
“they sink into my heart,” she repeated, earnestly. “I 
don’t want to go;” and she turned from Tom, and went 
into the house. 

A few days after, another woman came, in old Prue’s 
place, to bring the rusks ; Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen. 
“Lor!” said Dinah, “what’s got Prue?” 

“Prue isn’t coming any more,” said the woman, myster- 
iously. 

“Why not?” said Dinah. “She an’t dead, is she?” 

“We doesn’t exactly know. She’s down cellar,” said 
the woman, glancing at Miss Ophelia. 

After Miss Ophelia had taken the rusks, Dinah followed 
the woman to the door. 

“What has got Prue, anyhow?” she said. 

The woman seemed desirious, yet reluctant, to speak, 
and answered, in a low, mysterious tone. 

“Well, you mustn’t tell nobody. Prue, she got drunk 
agin, — and they had her down cellar, — and thar they left 


150 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


her all day, — and I hearn ’em saying that the flies had got 
to her, — and she’s dead!” 

Dinah held up her hands, and, turning, saw close by her 
side the spirit-like form of Evangeline, her large mystic 
eyes dilated with horror, and every drop of blood driven 
from her lips and cheeks. 

‘‘Lor bless us ! Miss Eva’s gwine to faint away 1 What 
got us all, to let her bar such talk ? Her pa ’ll be rail 
mad.” 

“I shan’t faint, Dinah,” said the child, firmly; “and 
why shouldn’t I hear it ? It an’t so much for me to hear 
it, as for poor Prue to suffer it.” 

“Lor sakes! it isn’t for sweet, delicate young ladies, like 
3'ou, — these yer stories isn’t ; it’s enough to kill ’em !” 

Eva sighed again, and walked upstairs with a slow and 
melancholy step. 

Miss Ophelia anxiously inquired the woman’s stor3^ 
Dinah gave a very garrulous version of it, to which Tom 
added the particulars which he had drawn from her that 
morning. 

“An abominable business, — perfectly horrible!” she ex- 
claimed, as she entered the room where St. Clare lay read- 
ing his paper. 

“Pray, what iniquity has turned up now?” said he. 

“What now? w%, those folks have whipped Prue to 
death!” said Miss Ophelia, going on, with great strength 
of detail, into the story, and enlarging on its most shock- 
ing particulars. 

“I thought it would come to that, some time,” said St. 
Clare, going on with his paper. 

“Thought so ! — an’t you going to do anything about it ?” 


Life Among the Lowly, 


151 


said Miss Ophelia. “Haven’t you got any selectmen, or 
anybody, to interfere and look after such matters?” 

“It’s commonly supposed that the property interest is 
a sufficient guard in these cases. If people choose to ruin 
their own possessions, I don’t know what’s to be done. It 
seems the poor creature was a thief and a drunkard; and 
so there won’t be much hope to get up sympathy for her.” 

“It is perfectly outrageous, — it is horrid, Augustine ! It 
will certainly bring down vengeance upon you. What do 
you think will be the end of this ?” said Miss Ophelia. 

“I don’t know. One thing is certain, — that there is a 
mustering among the masses, the world over; and there is 
a dies ira coming on, sooner or later. The same thing 
is working in Europe, in England, and in this country. 
;My mother used to tell me of a millennium that was com- 
ing, when Christ should reign, and all men should be free 
and happy. And she taught me, when I was a boy, to 
pray, ‘Thy kingdom come.’ Sometimes I think all this 
."^ighing, and groaning, and stirring among the dry bones 
foretells what she used to tell me was coming. But who 
may abide the day of His appearing?” 

“Augustine, sometimes I think you are not far from the 
kingdom,” said Miss Ophelia, laying down her knitting, 
and looking anxiously at her cousin. 

“Thank you for your good opinion ; but it’s up and down 
with me, — up to heaven’s gate in theory, down in earth’s 
dust in practice. But there’s the tea-bell, — do let’s go, — 
and don’t say, now, I haven’t had one do^vnright serious 
talk, for once in my life.” 

Our humble friend Tom had a decent room, contain- 


152 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


ing a bed, a chair, and a small, rough stand, where lay 
his Bible and hymn-book; and there he sat with his slate 
before him, intent on something that seemed to cost him 
a great deal of anxious thought. The fact was, Tom’s 
home yearnings had become so strong, that he had beg- 
ged a sheet of writing-paper of Eva, and, mustering up 
all his small stock of literary attainment acquired by Mas’r 
George’s instructions, he conceived the bold idea of writ- 
ing a letter; and he was busy now, on his slate, getting 
out his first draft. Tom was in a good deal of trouble, 
for the forms of some of the letters he had forgotten en- 
tirely; and of what he did remember, he did not know 
exactly which to use. And while he was working, and 
breathing very hard, in his earnestness, Eva alighted, like 
a bird, on the round of his chair behind him, and peeped 
over his shoulder. 

‘‘0, Uncle Tom! what funny things you are making, 
there ?” 

‘T’m trying to write to my poor old woman. Miss Eva, 
and my little chil’en,” said Tom, drawing the back of his 
hand over his eyes; “but, somehow, I’m feard I shan’t 
make it out.” 

“I wish I could help you, Tom! I’ve learnt to write 
some. Last year I could make all the letters, but I’m 
afraid I’ve forgotten.” 

So Eva put her little golden head close to his, and, with 
a deal of consulting and advising over every word, the 
composition began, as they both felt very sanguine, to look 
quite like writing. 

“Yes, Uncle Tom, it really begins to look beautiful,” 
said Eva, gazing delightedly on it. “How pleased your 


Life Among the Lowly. 


153 


wife’ll be, and the poor little children! 0, it’s a shame 
you ever had to go away from them ! I mean to ask papa 
to let you go back, some time.” 

“Missis said that she would send down money for me, 
as soon as they could get it together,” said Tom. “I’m 



“What funny things you are making.” 


’spectin’ she will. Young Mas’r George, he said he’d come 
for me; and he gave me this yer dollar as a sign;” and 
Tom drew from under his clothes the precious dollar. 

“0, he’ll certainly come, then!” said Eva. “I’m so 
glad!” 



154 


Uncle Toni’s Cabin; or 


“And I wanted to send a letter, you know, to let ’em 
know whar I was, and tell poor Chloe that I was well off, — 
cause she felt so drefful, poor soul!” 

‘T say, Tom !” said St. Clare, coming in the door at this 
moment. 

Tom and Eva both started. 

“What’s here?” said St. Clare, coming up and looking 
at the slate. 

“0, it’s Tom’s letter. I’m helping him to write it,” said 
Eva ; “isn’t it nice ?” 

“I wouldn’t discourage either of you,” said St. Clare, 
‘1)ut I rather think, Tom, you’d better get me to write 
your letter for you. I’ll do it, when I come home from 
my ride.” 

“It’s very important he should write,” said Eva, “be- 
cause his mistress is going to send down money to re- 
deem him, you know, papa ; he told me they told him so.” 

St. Clare thought, in his heart, that this was probably 
only one of those things which ^ood-natured owners say 
to their servants, to alleviate their horror of being sold, 
without any intention of fulfilling the expectation thus 
excited. But he did not make any audible comment upon 
it, — only ordered Tom to get the horses out for a ride. 

The letter, however, was written in due form for him 
that evening, and safely lodged in the post-office. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


155 


CHAPTER XX. 

TOPSY. 

O NE morning, while Miss Ophelia was busy in some 
of her domestic cares, St. Clare’s voice was hoard, 
calling her at the foot of the stairs. 

‘‘Come down here. Cousin ; I’ve something to show you.” 
“What is it?” said Miss Ophelia, coming down, with her 
sewing in her hand. 

“I’ve made a purchase for your department, — see here,” 
said St. Clare; and, with the word, he pulled along a little 
negro girl, about eight or nine years of age. 

She was one of the blackest of her race; and her round, 
shining eyes, glittering as glass beads, moved with quick 
and restless glances over everything in the room. Her 
mouth, half open with astonishment at the wonders of the 
new Mas’r’s parlor, displayed a \Hiite and brilliant set of 
teeth. Her woolly hair was braided in sundry little tails, 
which stuck out in every direction. The expression of her 
face was an odd mixture of shrewdness and cunning, over 
Avhich was oddly draAvn, like a kind of veil, an expression 
of the most doleful gravity and solemnity. She was dressed 
in a single filthy, ragged garment, made of bagging; end 
stood with her hands demurely folded before her. Alto- 
gether, there was something so odd and gol)l in-like about 


166 


Uncle Tom^s Cabin; or 


her appearance as to inspire that good lady with utter dis- 
may; and turning to St. 
Clare, she said, 

“Augustine, what in the 
world have you brought 
that thing here for ?” 

“For you to educate, to 
be sure, and train in the 
way she should go. Here, 
Topsy,” he added, give us 
a song, now, and show us 
some of your dancing,” 
The black glassy eyes 
j^littered with a kind of 
wicked drollery, and the 
thing struck up, in a clear 
shrill voice, an odd negro 
melody, to which she kept 
time with her hands and 
feet, spinning round, clap- 
ping her hands, knocking 
lier knees together, in a 
wild, fantastic sort of 
time, and producing in her 
throat all those odd gut- 
tural sounds which distin- 
guish the native music of 
her race; and finally, turn- 
ing a summerset or two, 
and giving a prolonged closing note, as odd and 
unearthly as that of a steam whistle, she came 




Life Among the Lowly. 


1#7 


suddenly down on the carpet, and stood with her 
hands folded, and a most sanctimonious expression of 
meekness and solemnity over her face, only broken by the 
cunning glances which she shot askance from the corners 
of her eyes. Miss Ophelia stood silent, perfectly para- 
lyzed with amazement. St. Clare, like a mischievous fel- 
low as he was, appeared to enjoy her astonishment; and, 
addressing the child again, said, 

“Topsy, this is your new mistress. I’m going to give 
you up to her; see now that you behave yourself.” 

‘‘Yes, Mas’r,” said Topsy, with sanctimonious gravity, 
her wicked eyes twinkling as she spoke. 

“You’re going to be good, Topsy, you understand,” said 
St. Clare. 

“0 yes, Mas’r,” said Topsy, with another twinkle, laer 
hands still devoutly folded. 

“Now, Augustine, what upon earth is this for?” said 
Miss Ophelia. 

“For you to educate — didn’t I tell you? You’re always 
preaching about educating.” 

“I don’t want her, I am sure; — I have more to do wk-h 
’em now than I want to.” 

“That’s you Christians, all over! — you’ll get up a so- 
ciety, and get some poor missionary to spend all his days 
among just such heathen. But let me see one of you that 
would take one into your house with you, and take the 
labor of their conversion on yourselves! No; when it 
comes to that, they are dirty and disagreeable, and it’s 
too much care, and so on.” 

“Augustine, you knoAv I didn’t think of it in that light,” 
said Miss Ophelia. “Well, it might be a real missionary 

F 


158 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

work/’ said she, looking rather more favorably on the 
child. 

St. Clare had touched the right string. Miss Ophelia’s 
conscientiousness was ever on the alert. ‘‘But,” she add- 
ed, “I really didn’t see the need of bu3dng this one; — 
there are enough now, in vour house, to take all my time 
and skill.” 

“Well, then. Cousin,” said St. Clare, drawing her aside, 
“I ought to beg your pardon for my good-for-nothing 
speeches. Y ou are so good, after all, that there’s no sense 
in them. Why, the fact is, this concern belonged to a 
couple of drunken creatures that keep a low restaurant 
that I have to pass by every day, and I was tired of hearing 
her screaming, and them beating and swearing at her. She 
looked bright and funny, too, as if something might l)e 
made of her; — so I bought her, and I’ll give her to you.” 

“Well, I’ll do what I can,” said Miss Ophelia. 

Sitting down before her, she began to question her. 

“IIow old are you, Topsy?” 

“Dun no. Missis,” said the image. 

“Don’t know how old you are? Didn’t anybody ever 
toll you? Who was your mother ?” 

“Never had none!” said the child. 

“Never had any mother? What do you mean? Where 
were you born?” 

“Never was born!” persisted Topsy, with another goblin- 
like grin. 

“You mustn’t answer me in that way, child. Tell me 
where you were born, and who 5mur father and mother 
were.” 

“Never was born,” reiterated the creature, more em- 


Life Among the Lowly. 


159 


phatically; “never had no father nor mother, nor nothin’. 
I was raised by a speculator, with lots of others. Old 
Aunt Sue used to take car on us.” 

“Laws, Missis, there’s heaps of ’em,” said Jane, breaking 
in. “Speculators buys ’em up cheap, when they’s little, 
and gets ’em raised for market.” 

“How long have you lived with your master and mis- 
tress ?” 

“Dun no. Missis.” 

“Is it a year, or more, or less?” 

“Dun no. Missis.” 

“Laws, Missis, those low negroes, — they can’t tell; they 
don’t know anything about time,” said Jane; “they don’t 
know what a year is; they don’t know their own ages.” 

“Have you ever heard anything about God, Topsy?” 

The child looked bewildered, hut grinned as usual. 

“Do you know who made you ?” 

“N'obody, as I knows on,” said the child, with a short 
laugh. “I spect I grow’d. Don’t think nobody never made me.” 

“Do you know how to sew?” said Miss Ophelia. 

“No, Missis.” 

“What can you do? — what did you do for your master 
and mistress?” 

“Fetch water, and wash dishes, and rub knives, and 
wait on folks.” 

“Were they good to you?” 

“Spect they was,” said the child, scanning Miss Ophelia 
cunningly. 

Miss Ophelia began vdth Topsy by taking her into her 
chamber, the first morning, and solemnly commencing a 


160 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


course of instruction in the art and mystery of bed-mak- 
ing. Topsy, washed and shorn of all the little braided 
tails wherein her heart had delighted, arrayed in a clean 
gown, Avith well-starched apron stood reverently before 
Miss Ophelia, with an expression of solemnity well befit- 
ting a funeral. 

“^i’ow, Topsy, I’m going to show you just how my bed 
is to be made. I am very particular about my bed. You 
must learn exactly how to do it.” 

‘Y^es, ma’am,” says Topsy, with a deep sigh, and a face 
of woful earnestness. 

‘‘Yow, Topsy, look here; — this is the hem of the sheet, 
— this is the right side of the sheet, and this is the wrong; 
— will you remember ?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” says Topsy, with another sigh ; but when 
Ihe good lady’s back was turned, the young disciple snatch- 
ed a pair of gloves and a ribbon and adroitly slipped them 
into her sleeves. 

“Yoav, Topsy, let’s see you do this,” said ]\Iiss Ophelia, 
pulling off the clothes, and seating herself. 

TopsA% with great gravity and adroitness, went through 
the exercise completely to IMiss Ophelia’s satisfaction, but 
by an unlucky slip, however, a fragment of the ribbon 
hung out of one of her sleeves, just as she was finishing, 
and caught Miss Ophelia’s attention. Instantly she 
pounced upon it. “What’s this? You naughty, wicked 
child, — you’ve been stealing this!” 

Topsy was not in the least disconcerted. “Laws! why, 
that ar’s Miss Feely’s ribbon, an’t it? How could it a 
got caught in my sleeve?” 


161 


Life Among the Lowly. 

‘‘Topsy, you naughty girl, don’t you tell me a lie,— you 
stole that ribbon!” 

"'Missis, I declar for ’t, I didn’t;— never seed it till dis 
yer blessed minnit.” 

“Topsy,” said Miss Ophelia, "don’t you know it’s wicked 
to tell lies ?” 

"I never tells no lies. Miss Feely,” said Topsy, with 
virtuous gravity; "it’s jist the truth I’ve been a tellin’ now, 
and an’t nothin’ else.” 

‘"Topsy, I shall have to whip you, if you tell lies so.” 

"Laws, Missis, if you’s to whip all day, couldn’t say no 
other way,” said Topsy, beginning to blubber. "I never 
seed that ar, — it must a got caught in my sleeve. Miss 
Feely must have left it on the bed, and it got caught in 
the clothes, and so got in my sleeve.” 

Miss Ophelia was so indignant at the barefaced lie, that 
she caught the child and shook her. 

"Don’t you tell me that again !” 

The shake brought the gloves on to the floor, from the 
other sleeve. 

"There you !” said Miss Ophelia, "will you tell me now, 
you didn’t steal the ribbon?” 

Topsy now confessed to the gloves, but still persisted 
in denying the ribbon. 

"Now, Topsy,” said Miss Ophelia, "if you’ll confess all 
about it, I won’t whip you this time.” Thus adjured, 
Topsy confessed to the ribbon and gloves, with woful pro- 
testations of penitence. 

""Well, now, tell me. I know you must have taken other 
things since you have been in the house, for I let you run 

II 


162 


Uncle Tom^s Cabin; or 


about all day yesterday. Now, tell me if you took any- 
thing, and I shan’t whip you.” 

“Laws, Missis ! I took Miss Eva’s red thing she wars on 
her neck.” 

“You did, you naughty child! — Well, what else?” 

“I took Kosa’s yer-rings, — them red ones.” 

“Go bring them to me this minute, both of ’em.” 

“Laws, Missis ! I can’t, — they’s burnt up !” 

“Burnt up! — what a story! Go get ’em, or I’ll whip 
you.” 

Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears, and groans, 
declared that she could not. “They’s burnt up, — they 
was.” 

“What did you burn ’em up for?” said Miss Ophelia. 

“Cause I’s wicked, — I is. I’s mighty wicked, any how. 
I can’t help it.” 

Just at this moment, Eva came innocently into the 
room, with the identical coral necklace on her neck. 

“Why, Eva, where did you get your necklace ?” said Miss 
Ophelia. 

“Get it? AWiy, I’ve had it on all day,” said Eva. 

“Did you have it on yesterday?” 

“Yes; and what is funny. Aunty, I had it on all night. 
I forgot to take it off when I went to bed.” 

Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered; the more so, 
as Eosa, at that instant, came into the room, with the 
coral ear-drops shaking in her ears! 

“I’m sure I can’t tell anything what to do with such a 
child!” she said, in despair. “What in the Avorld did you 
tell me you took those things for, Topsy?” 



‘‘Poor Topsy, why need you steal?” 

didn’t do,” said Miss Ophelia; “that’s telling a lie, just as 
much as the other.” 

“Laws, now, is it?” said Topsy, with an air of innocent 
wonder. 

“La, there an’t any such thing as truth in that limb,” 


Life Among the Lowly. 163 

“Why, ]\Iissis said I must ’fess; and I couldn’t think of 
nothin’ else to ’fess,” said Topsy, rubbing her eyes. 

“But, of course, I didn’t want you to confess things you 



164 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


said Eosa, looking indignantly at Topsy. ‘Tf I was Mas’r 
St. Clare, I’d whip her till the blood run. I would, — I’d 
let her catch it!” 

“No, no, Eosa,” said Eva, with an air of command, 
which the child could assume at times; “you mustn’t talk 
so, Eosa. I can’t bear to hear it.” 

“La sakes! Miss Eva, you’se so good, you don’t know 
nothing how to get along with niggers. There’s no way 
but to cut ’em well up. I’ll tell ye.” 

“Eosa!” said Eva, “hush! Don’t you say another word 
of that sort!” and the eye of the child flashed, and her 
cheek deepened its color. 

Eosa was cowed in a moment, and passed out of the 
room. 

Eva stood looking at Topsy perplexed and sorrowful, 
but she said sweetly; 

“Poor Topsy, why need you steal? You’re going to be 
taken good care of, now. I’m sure I’d rather give you any- 
thing of mine, than have you steal it.” 

It was the flrst word of kindness the child had ever 
heard in her life; and the sweet tone and manner struck 
strangely on the wild, rude heart, and a sparkle of some- 
thing like a tear shone in the keen, round, glittering eye; 
but it was followed by the short laugh and habitual grin. 

Blit what was to be done with Topsy? Miss Ophelia 
found the case a puzzler, and so shut Topsy up in a dark 
closet till she had arranged her ideas further on the sub- 
ject. 

“I don’t see,” said Miss Ophelia to St. Clare, ‘fliow I’m 
going to manage that child without whipping her.” 

“0, well, certainly,” said St. Clare; “do as you think 


Life Among the Lowly. 


165 


best. Only I’ll make one suggestion: I’ve seen this child 
whipped with a poker, knocked down with the shovel or 
tongs, or whichever came handiest, and, seeing that she is 
used to that style of operation, I think your whippings 
will have to be pretty energetic, to make much impress 
sion.” 

“I can only persevere and try, and do the best I can,” 
said Miss Ophelia; after this, she did labor with zeal and 
energy, on her new subject. She instituted regular hours 
and employments for her, and undertook to teach her to 
read and to sew. 

In the former art, the child was quick enough. She 
learned her letters as if by magic, and was very soon able 
to read plain reading; but the sewing was a more difficult 
matter. The creature was as lithe as a cat, and as active 
as a monkey, and the confinement of sewing was her 
abomination; so she broke her needles, threw them slyly 
out of windows, or down in chinks of the walls; she 
tangled, broke, and dirtied her thread, or, with a sly move- 
ment, would throw a spool away altogether. 

Topsy was soon a noted character in the establishment. 
In her play hours, she invariably had every child in the 
establishment at her heels, open-mouthed with admiration 
and wonder, — not excepting Miss Eva, who appeared to 
be fascinated by her, as a dove is sometimes charmed by 
a serpent. Miss Ophelia was uneasy that Eva should fancy 
Topsy’s society *so much, and implored St. Clare to for- 
bid it. 

‘Toh ! let the child alone,” said St. Clare. “Topsy will 
do her good.” 


166 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


‘‘But so depraved a child, — are 5'ou not afraid she will 
teach her some mischief?” 

“She can’t teach her mischief; she might teach it to 
some children, but evil rolls off Eva’s mind like dew off a 
cabbage-leaf, — not a drop sinks in,” 

Topsy was smart and energetic in all manual operations, 
learning everything that was taught her with surprising 
quickness. Mortal hands could not lay spread smoother, 

adjust pillows more accu- 
rately, sweep and dust and 
arrange more perfectly, 
than Topsy, wEen she 
chose — but she didn’t very 
often choose. When left 
to herself, instead of mak- 
ing the bed, she would 
amuse herself with pulling 
oft' the pillow-cases, but- 
ting her woolly head 
among the pillows, till it 
would sometimes be gro- 
tesquely ornamented with 
feathers sticking out in 
various directions; she would climb the posts, and hang 
head downward from the tops; flourish the sheets and 
spreads all over the apartment; dress the bolster up in 
Miss Ophelia’s night clothes, singing and whistling, 
and making grimaces at herself in the looking-glass; in 
short, as ]\riss Ophelia phrased it, “raisino- Cain” 
generally. ^ 

On one occasion. Miss Ophelia found Topsy with her 



Life Among the LoAvly. 


167 


very best scarlet India Canton crape shawl wound round 
her head for a turban, going on with her rehearsals before 
the glass in gjeat style, — Miss Ophelia haAung, with care- 
lessness most unheard-of in her, left the key for once in 
her drawer. 

“Topsy !” she would say, when at the end of all patience, 
“what does make you act so ?” 

“Dunno, Missis, — I spects cause I^s so wicked!” 

“I don’t know anything what I shall do with you, 
Topsy.” 

“Law, Missis, you must whip me; my old Missis allers 
whipped me. I an’t used to workin’ unless I gets whip- 
ped.” 

“Why, Topsy, I don’t want to whip you. You can do 
well, if you’ve a mind to; what is the reason you won’t?” 

“Laws, Missis, I’s used to whippin’; I spects it’s good 
for me.” 

Miss Ophelia tried the recipe, and Topsy invariably 
made a terrible commotion, screaming, groaning and im- 
ploring, though half an hour afterwards, when roosted on 
some projection of the balcony, and surrounded by a flock 
of admiring “young uns,” she would express the utmost 
contempt of the whole affair. 

“Law, Miss Eeely whip! — would n’t kill a skeeter, her 
whippins. Oughter see how old Mas’r made the flesh fly; 
old Mas’r know’d how !” 

Topsy always made great capital of her own sins and 
enormities, evidently considering them as something pecu- 
liarly distinguishing. 

“Law, you niggers,” she would say to some of her audi- 
tors, “does you know you ’s all sinners? Well, you is — 


168 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


everybody is. White folks is sinners too, — Miss Feely says 
so; but I ’spects niggers is the biggest ones; but lor! ye 
an’t any on ye up to me. I ’s so awful wicked there can’t 
nobody do nothin’ with me. I used to keep old Missis a 
swarin’ at me half de time. I ’spects I ’s the wickedest 
critter in the world;” and Topsy would cut a summerset, 
and come up brisk and shining on to a higher perch, and 
evidently plume herself on the distinction. 

St. Clare took the same kind of amusement in the child 
that a man might take in the tricks of a parrot or a 
pointer. Topsy, whenever her sins brought her into dis- 
grace in other quarters, always took refuge behind uis 
chair; and St. Clare, in one way or other, vmuld make 
peace for her. From him she got many a stray coin, which 
she laid out in nuts and candies, and distributed, with 
careless generosity, to all the children in the family; for 
Topsy, to do her justice, was good-natured and liberal, and 
only spiteful in self-defence. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


169 


X 


CHAPTER XXI. 

KENTUCK. 

L et us glance back, for a brief interval, at Uncle 
Tom’s Cabin, on the Kentucky farm, and see what 
has been transpiring among those whom he left 

behind. 

“Do you know,” said Mrs. Shelby to her husband, “that 
Chloe has had a letter from Tom ?” 

“Ah ! has she ? Tom ’s got some friend there, it seems. 
How is the old boy?” 

“He has been bought by a very fine family, I should 
think,” said Mrs. Shelby, — “is kindly treated, and has not 
much to do.” 

“Ah ! well, I ’m glad of it, — very glad,” said IMr. Shelby, 
heartily. “Tom, I suppose, will get reconciled to a South- 
ern residence ; — hardly want to come up here again.” 

“On the contrary, he inquires very anxiously,” said Mrs. 
Shelby, “when the ijioney for his redemption is to be 
raised.” 

“I ’m sure I don’t know,” said Mr. Shelby. ‘T can’t tell 
exactly — I know somewhere about what things are likely 
to be; but there ’s no trimming and squaring my affairs, 
as Chloe trims crust off her pies.” . 

“Don’t you think we might in some way contrive to raise 


170 


tlncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


that money ? Poor Aunt Cliloe ! her heart is so set on it 1” 

‘T ’m sorry, if it is. I think I was premature in promis- 
ing. I ’m not sure, now, but it ’s the best way to tell 
Chloe, and let her make up her mind to it. Tom ’ll have 
another wife, in a year or two; and she had better take up 
with somebody else.” 

‘‘Mr. Shelby, I have taught my people that their mar- 
riages are as sacred as ours. I never could think of giving 
Chloe such advice.” 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the appear- 
ance of Aunt Chloe herself. 

“If you please. Missis,” said she. 

“Weil, Chloe, what is it?” said her mistress. 

“Laws me. Missis! what should Mas’r and Missis be a 
troublin’ theirselves ’bout de money, and not a usin’ 
what’s right in der hands?” and Chloe laughed. 

“I don’t understand you, Chloe,” said Mrs. Shelby, noth- 
ing doubting, from her knowledge of Chloe’s manner, that 
she had heard every word of the conversation that had 
passed between her and her husband. 

“Why, laws me. Missis!” said Chloe, laughing again, 
“other folks hires out der niggers and makes money on 
’em ! Don’t keep such a tribe eatin’ ’em out of house and 
home.” 

“Well, Chloe, who do you propose that we should hire* 
out?” 

“Laws ! I an’t a proposin’ nothin’ ; only Sam he said der 
was one of dese yer pcrfcctioners dey calls ’em, in Louis- 
ville, said he wanted a good hand at cake and pastry; and 
said he ’d give four dollars a week to one, he did.” 

“Well, Chloe.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


171 


“Well, laws, I ’s a thinkin’, IMissis, it ’s time Sally was 
put along to be doin’ something. Sally ’s been under my 
care, now, dis some time, and she does most as well as me. 



“Well, Chloe, what is it?” 


considerin’; and if Missis would only let me go, I would 
help fetch up de money. I an’t afraid to put my cake, nor 
pies, nuther, ’longside no perfectioner’s.” 



172 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


‘Chloe, do you want to leave your children ?” 

“Laws, Missis ! de boys is big enough to do day’s works ; 
dey does well enough; and Sally, she ’ll take de baby, — 
she ’s such a peart young un, she won’t take no lookin’ 
arter.” 

“Louisville is a good way off.” 

“Law sakes! who ’s afeard? — it ’s down river, somer 
near my old man, perhaps ?” said Chloe, speaking the last 
in the tone of a question, and looking at Mrs. Shelby. 

“No, Chloe; it ’s many a hundred miles off,” said Mrs. 
Shelby. 

Chloe’s countenance fell. 

“Never mind; your going there shall bring you nearer, 
Chloe. Yes, you may go; and your wages shall every cent 
of them be laid aside for your husband’s redemption.” 

Chloe’s dark face brightened immediately, really shone. 
“Laws! if Missis is n’t too good! I was thinkin’ of dat ar 
very thing; cause I should n’t need no clothes, nor shoes, 
nor nothin’, — I could save every cent. How many weeks 
is der in a year. Missis?” 

“Fifty-two,” said Mrs. Shelby. 

“Laws ! now, dere is ? and four dollars for each on ’em. 
Why, how much ’d that ar be?” 

“Two hundred and eight dollars,” said Mrs. Shelby. 

“Why-e!” said Chloe, with an accent of surprise and de- 
light; “and how long would it take me to work it out, 
!Missis ?” 

“Some four or five years, Chloe ; but, then, you need n’t 
do it all, — I shall add something to it.” 

“I would n’t hear to Missis’ givin’ lessons nor nothin’. 


173 


Life Among the Lowly. 

Mas’r’s quite right in dat ar!— ’t would n’t do, no ways. I 
hope none our family ever be brought to dat ar, while I ’s 
got hands.” 

“Don’t fear, Chloe; I ’ll take care of the honor of the 
family,” said :Mrs. Shelby, smiling. “But when do you 
expect to go?” 

“Well, I wan’t spectin’ nothin’; only Sam, he ’s a gwine 
to de river with some colts, and so if Missis was willin’, I ’d 
go with Sam to-morrow morning, if Missis would write my 
pass, and write me a commendation.” 

“Well, Chloe, I ’ll attend to it, if Mr. Shelby has no 
objections. I must speak to him.” 

Mrs. Shelby went upstairs, and Aunt Chloe, delighted, 
went out to her cabin, to make her preparation. 

“Laws sakes, Mas’r George! ye did n’t know I ’s a gwine 
to Louisville to-morrow 1” she said to George, as, entering 
her cabin, he found her busy in sorting over her baby’s 
clothes. “ I thought I ’d jis look over sis’s things, and get 
’em straightened up. But I ’m gwine, Mas’r George, — 
gwine to have four dollars a week; and Missis is gwine to 
lay it all up, to buy back my old man agin!” 

“Whew!” said George. “How are you going?” 

“To-morrow, wid Sam. And now, Mas’r George, I knows 
you ’ll jis sit down and write to my old man, and tell him 
all about it, — won’t ye?” 

“To he sure,” said George; “Uncle Tom ’ll be right glad 
to hear from us. I ’ll go right in the house, for paper and 
ink; and then, you know. Aunt Chloe, I can tell about the 
new colts and all.” 

“Sartin, sartin, Mas’r George; you go ’long, and I ’ll get 


174 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


ye up a bit o’ chicken, or some sich; ye won’t have many 
more suppers wid yer poor old aunty.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

‘'the grass WITHERETH — THE FLOWER FADETH.” 

L ife passes, mth US all, a day at a time; so it passed 
with our friend Tom, till two years were gone. 
Tom and Eva were seated on a little mossy seat, 
in an arbor, at the foot of the garden. It was Sunday 
evening, and Eva’s Bible lay open on her knee. She read, 
— “And I saw a sea of glass, mingled with fire.” 

“Tom,” said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the 
lake, “there ’t is.” 

“What, Miss Eva?” 

“Don’t you see, — there ?” said the child, pointing to the 
glassy water, which, as it rose and fell, refiected the golden 
glow of the sky. “There ’s a ‘sea of glass, mingled with 
fire.’ ” 

“True enough. Miss Eva,” said Tom; and Tom sang: 

“0, had I the wings of the morning, 

I ’d fly away to Canaan’s shore ; 

Bright angels should convey me home. 

To the new Jerusalem.” 



Life Among the Lowly. 175 

“Where do you suppose new Jerusalem is, Uncle Tom?” 
said Eva. 

“0, up in the clouds. Miss Eva.” 

“Then I think I see it,” said Eva. “Look in those 


“Uncle Tom, I’m going there.” 

clouds ! — they look like great gates of pearl ; and you can 
see beyond them— far, far off — it "s all gold. Tom, sing 
about ^spirits bright.’ ” 



176 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

Tom sung the words of a well-known Methodist hymn : 

‘T see a band of spirits bright, 

That taste the glories there; 

They are all robed in spotless white. 

And conquering palms they bear.” 

‘‘Uncle Tom, I ’ve seen them,” said Eva. 

Tom had no doubt of it at all; it did not surprise him in 
the least. If Eva had told him she had been to heaven, he 
would have thought it entirely probable. 

“They come to me sometimes in my sleep, those spirits;” 
and Eva’s eyes grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low 
voice, 

“They are all robed in spotless white. 

And conquering palms they bear.” 

“Uncle Tom,” said Eva, “I ’m going there.” 

“Where, Miss Eva?” 

The child rose, and pointed her little hand to the sky; 
the glow of evening lit her golden hair and flushed cheek 
with a kind of unearthly radiance, and her eyes were bent 
earnestly on the skies. 

“I ’m going there,” she said, “to the spirits bright, Tom ; 
I ’m going, before long.” 

The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust; and Tom 
thought how often he had noticed, within six months, that 
Eva’s little hands had grown thinner, and her skin more 
transparent, and her breath shorter; and how, when she 
ran or played in the garden, as she once could for hours. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


177 


she became soon so tired and languid. They were inter- 
rupted by a hasty call from Miss Ophelia. 

“Eva — Eva! — why, child, the dew is falling; you 
mustn’t be out there!” 

She had noted the slight, dry, cough, the daily brighten- 
ing cheek, and tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare ; 
but he threw back her suggestions with a restless petu- 
lance, unlike his usual careless good humor. 

“Don’t be croaking, cousin, — I hate it!” he would say; 
“don’t you see that the child is only growing? Children 
always lose strength when they grow fast.” 

The child’s whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in 
works of love and kindness, and there was a touching and 
womanly thoughtfulness about her now, that everyone 
noticed. She would sit for half an hour at a time, laugh- 
ing at the odd tricks of Topsy, — and then a shadow would 
seem to pass across her face, her eyes grew misty, and her 
thoughts were afar. 

“Mamma,” she said, suddenly, to her mother, one day, 
“why don’t we teach our servants to read ?” 

“What a question, child ! People never do.” 

“Why don’t they ?” said Eva. 

“Because it is no use for them to read. It don’t help 
them to work any better, and they are not made for any- 
thing else.” 

“But they ought to read the Bible, mamma, to learn 
God’s will.” 

“0 ! they can get that read to them all they need.” 

“It seems to me, mamma, the Bible is for everyone to 
'read themselves. They need it a great many times when 
there is nobody to read it.” 

12 


178 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“Eva, you are an odd child,” said her mother. “See 
here!” she added, “these jewels I ’m going to give you 
when you come out. I wore them to my first ball. I can 
tell you, Eva, I made a sensation.” 

Eva took the jewel-case, and lifted from it a diamond 
necklace. Her large, though ful eyes rested on them, but 
it was plain her thoughts were elsewhere. 

“How sober you look, child !” said Marie. 

“Are these Avorth a great deal of money, mamma?” 

“To be sure they are. Father sent to France for them. 
They are worth a small fortune.” 

“I wish I had them,” said Eva, “to do what I pleased 
with !” 

“What would you do Avith them ?” 

“I ’d sell them, and buy a place in the free States, and 
take all our people there, and hire teachers, to teach them 
to read and AA’^rite.” 

Eva was cut short by her mother’s laughing. 

“Sot up a boarding-school! Would n’t you teach them 
to play on the piano, and paint on velvet?” 

“I ’d teach them to read their oavu Bible, and write their 
OAvn letters, and read letters that are Avritten to them,” 
said Eva, steadily. “I know, mamma, it does come very 
hard on them, that they can’t do these things. Tom feels 
it, — Mammy does, — a great many of them do. I think it ’s 
Avrong.” 

“Come, come, Eva; you are only a child! You don’t 
know anything about these things,” said Marie; besides, 
your talking makes my head ache.” 

Eva stole away; but after that, she assiduously gaA^e 
Mammy reading lessons. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


179 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

HENRIQUE. 

A bout this time, St, Clare’s brother Alfred, with 
his eldest son, a boy of twelve, spent a day or 
two with the family. Henrique, the eldest son 
of Alfred, was a noble, dark-eyed boy, full of vivacity and 
spirit ; and, from the first moment of introduction, seemed 
to be perfectly fascinated by the graces of his cousin 
Evangeline. 

Eva had a little pet pony, of a snowy whiteness. It was 
easy as a cradle, and as gentle as its little mistress; and 
this pony was now brought up to the verandah by Tom, 
while a little mulatto boy led along a small black Arabian, 
which had Just been imported, at a great expense, for Hen- 
rique. As he advanced and took the reins out of the hands 
of his little groom, his brow darkened. 

‘^What ’s this. Dodo, you little lazy dog! you have n’t 
rubbed my horse down, this morning.” 

^TTes, mas’r,” said Dodo, submissively; ^Tie got that 
dust on his own self.” 

“You rascal, shut your mouth !” said Henrique, violently 
raising his riding whip. “How dare you speak ?” 

“Mas’r Henrique! — ” he began. 

Henrique struck him across the face with his riding- 


180 Uncle Tom^s Cabin; or 

whip, and, seizing one of his arms, forced him on to his 
knees, and beat him till he was out of breath. 

“There, you impudent dog! Now will you learn not to 
answer back when I speak to you ? Take the horse back, 
and clean him properly. I ’ll teach you your place !” 

“Young Mas’r,” said Tom, “I spects what he was gwine 
to say was, that the horse would roll when he was bringing 
him up from the stable; he ’s so full of spirits, — that ’s 
the way he got that dirt on him ; I looked to his cleaning.” 

“Y on hold your tongue till you ’re asked to speak 1” said 
Henrique. “Dear cousin, I ’m sorry this stupid fellow has 
kept you waiting,” he said. “What ’s the matter, you look 
sober.” 

“How could you be so cruel and wicked to poor Dodo?” 
said Eva. 

“Cruel, — wicked!” said the boy, with unaffected sur- 
prise. “What do you mean, dear Eva ?” 

“I don’t want you to call me dear Eva, when you do so,” 
said Eva. 

“Dear cousin, you do n’t know Dodo ; it ’s the only way 
to manage him, he ’s so full of lies and excuses.” 

“But Uncle Tom said it was an accident, and he never 
tells Avhat is n’t true.” 

“He ’s an uncommon old nigger, then!” said Henrique. 
“^Dodo will lie as fast as he can speak; but I won’t beat 
him again before you, if it troubles you.” 

Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to make 
her cousin understand her feelings. 

Dodo soon appeared, with the horses. 

“Well, Dodo, you ’ve done pretty well, this time,” said 
his young master, with a more gracious air. “Come, now. 


Life Among the Lowly. 181 

and hold Miss Eva’s horse, while I put her on to the 
saddle.” 



“There, you impudent dog.” 


When he had placed the reins in her hands, Eva bent to 
the other side of the horse, where Dodo was standing, and 
said, ‘That ’s a good boy, Dodo; — thank you!” 


182 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


Dodo looked up. The blood rushed to his cheeks, and 
the tears to his eyes. 

“Here, Dodo,” said his master, imperiously. 

Dodo sprang and held the horse, while his master 
mounted. “There’s something for you to buy candy with. 
Dodo,” said he, and cantered down the walk after Eva. 

St. Clare and his brother were playing a game of back- 
gammon when the children returned from their ride. Eva 
was dressed in a blue riding-dress, with a cap of the same 
color. Exercise had given a brilliant hue to her cheeks, 
and heightened the effect of her singularly transparent 
skin, and golden hair. 

“What perfectly dazzling beauty!” said Alfred. “I tell 
you, Auguste, won’t she make some hearts ache, one of 
these days?” 

“She will, too truly, — God knows I ’m afraid so!” said 
St. Clare, in a tone of sudden bitterness, as he hurried 
down to take her off her horse. 

“Eva, darling! you ’re not much tired?” he said, as he 
clasped her in his arms. 

“No, papa,” said the child; but her short, hard breath- 
ing alarmed her father. 

“How could you ride so fast, dear ? — you know it ’s bad 
for you.” 

“I felt so well, papa, and liked it so much, I forgot.” 

St. Clare carried her in his arms into the parlor and laid 
her on the sofa, and she soon found herself much better. 
Her father and uncle resumed their game, and the children 
were left together. 

“Do you know, Eva, I don’t mean to treat Dodo ill; but, 
you know, I ’ve got such a quick temper. I ’m not really 


Life Among the Lowly. 


183 



bad to him, though. I give him money now and then ; and 
you see he dresses well. I think, on the whole. Dodo ’s 
pretty well off.” 


“Would you think you were w^ell off, if there were not 
one creature in the world near you to love you ?’ 

“T ? — Well, of course not.” 

“And you have taken Dodo away from all the friends he 


“How could you be so to Dodo?” 



184 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


ever had, and now he has not a creature to love him; — 
nobody can be good that way.” 

“Well, I can’t help it, as I know of. I can’t get his 
mother, and 1 can’t love him myself, nor anybody else, as I 
know of.” 

“Why can’t you?” said Eva. 

“Love Dodo! Why Eva, you would n’t have me ! I may 
like him well enough ; but you don’t love your servants.” 

“I do, indeed.” 

“How odd!” 

“Don’t the Bible say we must love everybody?” 

“0, the Bible! To be sure, it says a great many such 
things; but, then, nobody ever thinks of doing them, — you 
know, Eva, nobody does.” 

Eva did not speak; her eyes were fixed and thoughtful, 
for a few moments. 

“At any rate,” she said, “dear cousin, do love poor Dodo, 
and be kind to him, for my sake!” 

The dinner-bell put an end to the interview. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


185 


CHAPTEE XXIV. 

FORESHADOWINGS. 

T WO days after this, Alfred St. Clare and Augustine 
parted; and Eva, who had been stimulated by the 
society of her young cousin, to exertions beyond 
her strength, began to fail rapidly. St. Clare was at last 
willing to call in medical advice, — a thing from which he 
had always shrunk, because it was the admission of an 
unwelcome truth. 

Marie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child^s grad- 
ually decaying health and strength, because she was com- 
pletely absorbed in studying out two or three new forms of 
disease to which she believed she herself was a victim. 

Miss Ophelia had several times tried to awaken her 
maternal fears about Eva; but to no avail. 

In a week or two, there was a great improvement of 
symptoms, and Eva’s step was again in the garden, — in 
the balconies; she played and laughed again, — and her 
father, in a transport, declared that they should soon 
have her as hearty as anybody. Miss Ophelia and the 
physician alone felt no encouragement from this illusive 
truce. There was one other heart, too, that felt the same 
certainty, and that was the little heart of Eva. 

For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though 


186 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


life was unfolding before her with ever}^ brightness that 
love and wealth could give, had no regret for herself in 
dying. 

In that book which she and her simple old friend had 
read so much together, she had seen and taken to her 
young heart the image of One who loved the little child; 
and, as she gazed and mused. He had ceased to be an image 
and a picture of the distant past, and come to be a living, 
all-surrounding reality. But her heart yearned with sad 
tenderness for all that she was to leave behind. 

Eva came tripping up the verandah steps to her father. 
He folded her suddenly in his arms, and said : 

‘‘Eva, dear, you are better nowadays, — are you not?” 

“Papa,” said Eva, with sudden firmness, “I ’ve had 
things I wanted to say to you, a great while. I want to say 
them now, before I get weaker.” 

St. Clare trembled as Eva seated herself in his lap. She 
laid her head on his bosom, and said, 

“It ’s all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. 
The time is coming that I am going to leave you. I am 
going, and never to come back !” and Eva sobbed. 

“0, now, my dear little Eva!” said St. Clare, trembling 
as he spoke, but speaking cheerfully, “voii ’ve got nervous 
and low-spirited; you must n’t indulge such gloomy 
thoughts.” 

“ISTo, papa,” said Eva, “don’t deceive yourself! — I am 
not any better, T know it perfectly well, — and I am going, 
before long. I am not nervous,^ — T am not low-spirited. If 
it were not for you, papa, and my friends, I should be per- 
f ectlv happy. I want to go, — I long to go !” 

“Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart 



Life Among the Lovly. 187 

so sad? You have had everything, to make you happy, 
that could be given you.” 

‘‘I had rather he in heaven; though, only for my 
friends’ sake, I would he willing to live. There are a great 


“No, papa, don’t deceive yourself!’’ 

many things here that make me sad, that seem dreadful 
to me; T had rather he there; hut I don’t want to leave 
you, — it almost breaks my heart!” 



188 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


‘‘What makes you sad, and seems dreadful, Eva?” 

“0, things that are done, and done all the time. I feel 
sad for our poor people; they love me dearly, and they are 
all good and kind to me. I wish, papa, they were all free.” 

“Why, don’t you think they are well enough off now?” 

“0, but, papa, if anything should happen to you, what 
would become of them? Papa, these poor creatures love 
their children as much as you do me. 0 ! do something for 
them! There ’s poor Mammy loves her children; I ’ve 
seem her cry when she talked about them. And Tom loves 
his children; and it ’s dreadful, papa, that such things are 
happening, all the time!” 

“There, there, darling,” said St. Clare, soothingly ; “only 
don’t distress yourself, and don’t talk of dying, and I will 
do anything you wish.” 

“And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his 
freedom as soon as” — she stopped, and said, in a hesitating 
tone — “I am gone!” 

“Yes, dear, I will do anything in the world, — anything 
you could ask me to.” 

“Dear papa,” said the child, laying her burning cheek 
against his, “how I wish we could go together!” 

“Where, dearest ?” said St. Clare. 

“To our Savior’s home ; it ’s so sweet and peaceful there 
— it is all so loving there !” The child spoke unconsciously, 
as of a place where she had often been. “Don’t you want 
to go, papa ?” she said. 

St. Clare drew her closer to him, but was silent. 

“You will come to me,” said the child, speaking in a 
voice of calm certainty which she often used unconsciously. 

“I shall come after you. I shall not forget you.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


189 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 

I T was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched on a 
bamboo lounge in the verandah, solacing himself 
with a cigar. Marie lay reclined on a sofa, opposite 
the window opening on the verandah, closely secluded, 
under an awning of transparent gauze, from the outrages 
of the mosquitos, and languidly holding in her hand an 
elegantly-bound prayer-book. She was holding it because 
it was Sunday, and she imagined she had been reading 
it, — though, in fact, she had been only taking a succession 
of short naps, with it open in her hand. 

Miss Ophelia, who, after some rummaging, had hunted 
up a small Methodist meeting within riding distance, had 
gone out, with Tom as driver, to attend it; and Eva had 
accompanied them. Soon after their return Miss Ophelia 
appeared, dragging Topsy after her, 

^‘Come out here, now!” she said. ‘T will tell your 
master!” 

“What ’s the case now?” asked Augustine. 

“The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this child 
any longer! It ’s past all bearing; flesh and blood cannot 
endure it ! Here, I locked her up, and gave her a hymn to 
study; and what does she do, but spy out where I put my 


190 


’Uncle Toni’s Cabin; or 


key, and has gone to my bureau, and got a bonnet trim- 
ming and cut it all to pieces, to make dolls’ jackets! T 
never saw anything like it, in my life!” 

“Come here. Tops, you monkey!” said St. Clare, calling 
the child up to him. 

Topsy came up; her round, hard eyes glittering and 
blinking with a mixture of apprehensiveness and their 
usual odd drollery. 

“What makes you behave so?” said St. Clare, who could 
not help being amused with the child’s expression. 

“Spects it ’s my wicked heart,” said Topsy, demurely; 
“Miss Feely says so.” 

“Don’t you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for 
you ? She says she has done everything she can think of.” 

“Lor, yes, Mas’r! old Missis used to say so, too. She 
whipped me a heap harder, and used to pull my har, and 
knock my head agin the dor; but it did n’t do me no good! 
I spects, if they ’s to pull every spear o’ har out o’ my 
head, it would n’t do no good, neither, — I ’s so wicked! 
Laws ! I ’s nothin’ but a nigger, no ways !” 

Eva, who had stood a silent spectator of the scene thus 
far, made a silent sign to Topsy to follow her. There was 
a little glass room at the corner of the verandah, which 
St. Clare used as a sort of reading-room; and Eva and 
Topsy disappeared into this place. 

St. Clare lifted up a curtain that covered the glass door, 
and looked in. In a moment, laying his finger on his lips, 
he made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. 
There sat the two children on the floor, Topsy, with her 
usual air of careless drollery and unconcern; Eva, with 


Life Among the Lowly. 191 

her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her large 
eyes. 

“^‘What does make you so had, Topsy? Why won’t you 
try and he good ? Don’t you love anybody, Tops}^?” 



“I will tell your master.” 


“Dunno nothing ’bout love; T loves candy and sich, 
that ’s all,” said Topsy. 

‘‘But you love your father and mother?” 

“Never had none, ye know. I tolled ye that. Miss Eva.” 



192 


Uncle Toni’s Cabin; or 


‘U, I know,” said liva, sadly; ‘‘but had n’t you any 
brother, or sister, or aunt, or — ” 

“^^o, none on ’em, — never had nothing nor nobody.” 

“But, Topsy, if you ’d only try to be good, you might — ” 

“Could n’t never be nothin’ but a nigger, if I was ever 
so good,” said Topsy. “If I could be skinned, and come 
white, I ’d try then.’' 

“But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss 
Ophelia would love you, if you were good.” 

Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her common 
mode of expressing incredulity. 

“Don’t you think so?” said Eva. 

“No; she can’t bar me, ’cause I ’m a nigger! — she ’d ’s 
soon have a toad touch her 1 There can’t nobody love nig- 
gers, and niggers can’t do nothin’! I don’t care,” said 
Topsy, beginning to whistle. 

“0, Topsy, poor child, I love you!” said Eva, with a 
sudden burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white 
hand on Topsy’s shoulder; “I love you, because you 
haven’t had any father, or mother, or friends; — ^because 
you’ve been a poor, abused child! I love you, and I want 
you to be good. I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I 
shan’t live a great while; and it really grieves me, to have 
you be so naughty. I wish you would try to be good, for 
my sake; — it’s only a little while I shall be with you.” 

“0, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva!” said the child; “I 
will try, I will try; I never did care nothin’ about it be- 
fore.” 

St. Clare dropped the curtain. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


193 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

DEATH. 

T he deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for 
a little while was fast passing away. 

One afternoon, as she was reclining on a lounge 
by the open window, she heard her mother’s voice, in 
sharp tones, in the verandah. 

“You’ve been picking the flowers, hey?” and Eva heard 
the sound of a smart slap. 

“Law, Missis! — they’s for Miss Eva,” she heard Topsy 
reply. 

“Miss Eva! A pretty excuse! — you suppose she wants 
your flowers, you good-for-nothing nigger? Get along off 
with you!” 

In a moment, Eva was off from her lounge, a«id in the 
verandah. 

“0, don’t mother! I should like the flowers; do give 
them to me ; I want them !” 

“Why, Eva, your room is full now.” 

“I can’t have too many,” said Eva. “Topsy, do bring 
them here.” 

Topsy, who had stood sullenly, holding down her head, 
now came up and offered her flowers. She did it with a 
look of hesitation and bashfulness, quite unusual to her. 

13 


194 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


She looked pleased, as Eva said, — ‘‘Topsy, you arrange 
llowers very prettily. Here,” she said, ^‘is this vase I 
haven’t any flowers for. I wish you’d arrange something 
every day for it.” 

“Well, that’s odd!” said Marie. “What in the world 
do you want that for ?” 

“Never mind, mamma ; you’d as lief as not Topsy should 
do it, — had you not?” 

“Of course, anything you please, dear ! Topsy, you hear 
your young mistress; — see that you mind.” 

Topsy made a short courtesy, and looked down; and, as 
she turned away, Eva saw a tear roll down her dark cheek. 

“You see, mamma, I knew poor Topsy wanted to do 
something for me,” said Eva to her mother. 

“0, nonsense ! it’s only because she likes to do mischief. 
She knows she mustn’t pick flov'ers; but, if you fancy to 
have her pluck them, so be it.” 

“Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used 
to be ; she’s trying to be a good girl.” 

“She’ll have to try a good while before she gets to be 
good,” said Marie, with a careless laugh, 

“Mamma, you believe, don’t you, that Topsy could be- 
come an angel, as well as any of us, if she were a Chris- 
tian?” 

“Topsy! what a ridiculous idea! Nobody but you would 
ever think of it. I suppose she could, though.” 

“It’s such a pity, — oh! such a pity!” said Eva, looking 
out on the distant lake, and speaking half to herself. 

“What’s a pity?” said Marie. 

“Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and 


Life Among the Lowly. 


195 


live with angels, should go all down, down, down, and 
nobody help them! — oh, dear!” 


‘‘Mamma,” said Eva, “I want to have some of my hair 



“Law, Missis! they’s for Miss Eva.” 

cut off, — a good deal of it.” 

“What for?” said Marie. 


“IMamma, I want to give some away to my friends, while 
I am able to give it to them myself. Won’t you ask aunty 
to come and cut it for me ?” 


190 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


‘‘What’s that,” said St. Clare, who just then entered. 
“Papa, I just want Aunty to cut off some of my hair; I 
want to give some of it away.” 

Miss Ophelia came, with her scissors. 

St. Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eyeing the 
long, beautiful curls, which, as they were separated from 
the child’s head, were laid, one by one, in her lap. She 
raised them up, looked earnestly at them, twined them 
around her thin fingers, and looked, from time to time, 
anxiously at her father. 

Marie lay back on a lounge, and covered her face with 
her cambric handkerchief. 

Eva’s clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the 
other. It was evident she saw, felt, and appreciated, the 
difference between the two. Her father came, and sat 
down by her. 

“Papa, my strength fades away every day, and I know 
I must go. I want to see all our people together. I have 
some things I must say to them,” said Eva. 

Miss Ophelia dispatched a messenger, and soon the 
whole of the servants were convened in the room. 

* Eva lay back on her pillows; her hair hanging loosely 
about her face, her crimson cheeks contrasting painfully 
with the intense whiteness of her complexion. 

Then she raised herself, and looked long and earnestly 
round at every one. 

“I sent for you all, my dear friends,” said Eva, “be- 
cause I love you. I love you all ; and I have something to 

say to you, which I want you always to remember 

I am going to leave you. In a few more weeks, you will 
see me no more — ” 



Life Among the Lowly. 197 

Here the child was interrupted hy bursts of groans, sobs, 
and lamentations, which broke from all present, and in 
which her slender voice was lost entirely. She waited a 
moment, and then, speaking in a tone that checked the 


‘‘I am going to leave you.” 

sobs of all, she said, 

“If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen 
to what I say. I want to speak to you about your souls. 
. . . . Many of you, T am afraid, are very careless. You 
are thinking only about this world. I want you to re- 



198 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


member that there is a beautiful world, where Jesus is. I 
am going there, and you can go there. It is for you, as 
much as me. But, if you want to go there, you must not 
live idle, careless, thoughtless lives. You must be Chris- 
tians. You must remember that each one of you can be- 
come angels, and be angels forever If you want to 

be Christians, Jesus will help you. You must pray to 
him; you must read — ” 

The child clieckcd herself, looked piteously at them, and 
said, sorrowfully, 

“0, dear ! you can’t read, — ^poor souls !” and she hid her 
face in the pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered 
sob from those she was addressing, who were kneeling on 
the floor, aroused her. 

^‘Never mind,” she said, raising her face and smiling 
brightly through her tears, “I have prayed for you; and 
I know Jesus will help you, even if you can’t read. Try 
all to do the best you can; pray every day; ask Him to 
help you, and get the Bible read to you whenever you 
can; and I think I shall see you all in heaven.” 

“Amen,” was the murmured response from the lips of 
Tom and Mammy, and some of the elder ones, who be- 
longed to the Methodist church. The younger and more 
thoughtless ones were sobbing, with their heads bowed 
upon their knees. 

“There isn’t one of you that hasn’t always been very 
kind to me ; and I want to give you something that, when 
you look at, you shall always remember me. I’m going 
to give all of you a curl of my hair; and, when you look 
at it, think that I loved you and am gone to heaven, and 
that I want to see you all there.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


199 


It is impossible to describe the scene, as, with tears and 
sobs, they gathered round the little creature, and took 
from her hands what seemed to them a last mark of her 
love. They fell on their knees; they sobbed, and prayed, 
and kissed the hem of her garment; and the elder ones 
l)oured forth words of endearment, mingled in prayers 
and blessings. 

St. Clare had been sitting, during the whole time, with 
his hands shading his eyes, in the same attitude. When 
they were all gone, he sat so still. 

‘Tapa !” said Eva, gently, laying her hand on his. 

He gave a sudden start and shiver; but made no answer. 

“Dear papa I” said Eva. 

“I cannot,” said St. Clare, rising, “I cannot have it so! 
The Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me!” and 
St. Clare pronounced these words with a bitter emphasis, 
indeed. 

“Augustine! has not God a right to do what He will 
with his own?” said Miss Ophelia. 

“Perhaps so; but that doesn’t make it any easier to 
bear,” said he, with a dry, hard, tearless manner, as he 
turned away. 

“Papa, you break my heart !” said Eva, rising and throw- 
ing herself in his arms; “you must not feel so!” and the 
child sobbed and wept with a violence which alarmed tliem 
all, and turned her father’s thoughts at once to anollier 
channel. 

“There, Eva, — there, dearest! Hush! hush! I was 
wrong; I was wicked. I will feel any way, do any way, — 
only don’t distress yourself; don’t sob so. I will be re- 
signed; I was wicked to speak as I did.” 


200 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


Eva soon lay like a wearied dove in her father’s arms; 
and he, bending over her, soothed her by every tender 
word he could think of. 

Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into 
her own, when si e fell into violent hysterics. 

Uncle Tom was much in Eva’s room. The child suffered 
much from nervous restlessness, and it was a relief to her 
to be carried: and it was Tom’s greatest delight to carry 
her little frail form in his arms, resting on a pillow, now 
up and down her room, now out into the verandah; and 
when the fresh sea-breezes blew — and the child felt fresh- 
est in the morning, — he would sometimes walk with her 
under the orange-trees in the garden, or, sitting down in 
some of their old seats, sing to her their favorite old 
hymns. 

At last he would not sleep in his room, but lay all night 
in the outer verandah, ready to rouse at every call. 

At midnight, the door of Eva’s room was quickly opened. 
‘^Go for the doctor, Tom! lose not a moment,” said Miss 
Ophelia; and, stepping across the room, she rapped at 8t. 
Clare’s door. “Cousin,” she said, “1 wish you would 
come.” 

In a few moments, Tom returned, with the doctor. He 
entered, gave one look, and stood silent as the rest. 

Marie roused by the entrance of the doctor, appeared, 
hurriedly, from the ne.vt room. 

“Augustine! Cousin! — 0! — what!” she hurriedly began. 

“Hush!” said St. Clare, hoarsely; “she is dying!” 

IMammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the ser- 
vants. The house was soon roused, — lights were seen. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


201 


footsteps heard, anxious faces thronged the verandah, and 
looked tearfully through the glass door; but St. Clare 
heard and said nothing, — he saw only that look on the fa<je 
of the little sleeper. 

“0, if she would only wake, and speak once more!” he 
said; and, stooping over her, he spoke in her ear, — ‘‘Eva, 
darling I” 

“Dear papa,” said the child, with a last effort, throwing 
her arms about his neck. In a moment they dropped 
again ; and, as St. Clare raised his head, he saw a spasm of 
mortal agony pass over the face, — she struggled for breatli, 
and threw up her little hands. 

“0, God, this is dreadful!” he said, turning away in 
agony, and wringing Tom’s hand, scarce conscious what 
he was doing, “0, Tom, my boy, it is killing me!” 

Tom had his master’s hands between his own; and, with 
tears streaming down his dark clieeks, looked up for help 
where he had always been used to look. 

“Pray that this may be cut short!” said St. Clare, — 
“this wrings my heart.” 

“0, bless the Lord! it’s over, — it’s over, dear Master!” 
said Tom; “look at her.” 

“Eva,” said St. Clare, gently. 

She did not hear. 

“0, Eva, tell us what you see! What is it?” said her 
father, 

A bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she 
said, brokenly, — “0! love, — joy, — peace!” gave one sigh, 
and passed from death unto life! 


202 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


CHAPTER XXYIl. 

“this is the last of earth/" — John Q. Adams. 

T he bed was draped in white; and there, beneath a 
drooping angel-figure, lay a little sleeping form, — 
sleeping never to awaken! 

There were still flowers on the shelves, — all white, deli- 
cate and fragrant, with graceful, drooping leaves. Eva’s 
little table, covered with white, bore on it her favorite 
vase, with a single white moss rose-bud in it. Even now, 
Avhile St. Clare stood there thinking, little Rosa tripped 
softly into the chamber with a basket of white flowers. 
She stepped back when she saw St. Clare, and stopped 
respectfully; but, seeing that he did not observe her, she 
came forward to place them around the dead. The door 
opened again, and Topsy, her eyes swelled with crying, 
appeared, holding something under her apron. Rosa 
made a quick, forbidding gesture; but she took a step into 
the room. 

“You must go out,” said Rosa, in a sharp, positive whis- 
per; “you haven’t any business here!” 

“0, do let me! I brought a flower, — such a pretty one!” 
said Topsy, holding up a half-blown tea rose-bud. “Do 
let me put just one there.” 

“Get along!” said Rosa, more decidedly. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


203 


“Let her stay!” said St. Clare, suddenly stamping his 
foot. “She shall come.” 

Topsy came forward and laid her offering at the feet 
of the corpse; then suddenly, with a wild and bitter cry, 



“She threw herself on the floor.” 


she threw herself on the floor alongside the bed, and wept, 
and moaned aloud. 

Miss Ophelia hastened into the room, and tried to raise 
and silence her; but in vain. 


204 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


• “Get up, child,” said Miss Ophelia, in a softened voice; 
“don’t cry so. Miss Eva is gone to heaven: she is an 
angel.” 

“She said she loved me,” said Topsy,— “she did! 0, 
dear! oh, dear! there an’t nobody left now, — there an’t!” 

* Miss Ophelia raised her gently, but firmly, and took her 
from the room; but, as she did so, some tears fell from her 
eyes. 

" “Topsy, you poor child,” she said, as she led her into 
her room, “don’t give up! I can love you, though I am 
not like that dear little child. I hope I’ve learnt some- 
thing of the love of Christ from her. I can love you; I do, 
and I’ll try to help you to grow up a good Christian girl.” 

Miss Ophelia’s voice was more than her words, and more 
than that were the honest tears that fell down her face. 
From that hour, she acquired an influence over the mind 
of the destitute child that she never lost. 

There were, for a while, soft whisperings and footfalls 
in the chamber, as one after another stole in, to look at 
the dead; and then came the little coffin; and then there 
was a funeral, and carriages drove to the door, and 
strangers came and were seated; and there were white 
scarfs and ribbons, and crape bands, and mourners dressed 
in black crape; and there were words read from the Bible, 
and prayers offered; and St. Clare lived, and walked, and 
moved, as one who has shed every tear; — to the last he 
saw only one thing, that golden head in the coffin. 

One day after the funeral Tom, who was always uneasily 
following his master about, had seen him go to his library, 
some hours before; and, after vainly waiting for him to 


Life Among the Lowly. 


205 


come out, determined, at last, to make an errand in. He 
entered softly. St. Clare lay on his lounge, at t^ie further 
end of the room. He was lying on his face, with Eva's 
Bible open before him, at a little distance. Tom walked 
up, and stood by the sofa. • 

‘Tf Mas’r pleases,” said Tom, “Miss Eva used to read 
this so beautifully. I wish Mas’r’d be so good as read it. 
Don’t get no readin’, hardly, now Miss Eva’s gone.” 

The chapter was the eleventh of John, — the touching 
account of the raising of Lazarus. St. Clare read it aloud, 
often pausing to wrestle down feelings which were roused 
by the pathos of the story. Tom knelt before him, wiWi 
clasped hands, and with an absorbed expression of love, 
trust, and adoration, on his quiet face. 

“Tom,” said his master, “this is all real to you !” 

“T can jest fairly see it, Mas’r,” said Tom. 

“I wish I had yoiir eyes, Tom.” 

“T wish, to the dear Lord, Mas’r had !” 

“But, Tom, you know that I have a great deal more 
knowledge than you; what if I should tell you that I don’t 
believe this Bible?” 

“0, Mas’r!” said Tom, holding up his hands, with a 
deprecating gesture. 

“Wouldn’t it shake your faith some, Tom ?” 

“Hot a grain,” said Tom. 

“Why, Tom, you must know I know the most.” 

“0, Mas’r, haven’t you jest read how He hides from the 
wise and prudent, and reveals unto babes? But Mas’r 
wasn’t in earnest, for sartin, now?” said Tom, anxiously. 

“Ho, Tom, I was not. I don’t disbelieve, and I think 


206 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


there is reason to believe; and still I don’t. It’s a trouble- 
some bad habit I’ve got, Tom.” 

“If Mas’r would onh' pray!” 

“How do you know f don’t, Tom?” 

“Does Mas’r ?” 

“I would, Tom, if there was anybody there when I pray ; 
but it’s all speaking unto nothing, when I do. But come, 
Tom, you pray now, and show me how.” 

Tom’s heart was full; he poured it out in prayer, like 
waters that have been long suppressed. In fact, St. Clare 
felt himself borne, on the tide of his faith and feeling, 
almost to the gates of that heaven he seemed so vividly 
to conceive. It seemed to bring him nearer to Eva. 

“Thank you, my boy,” said St. Clare, when Tom rose. 
“I like to hear you, Tom ; but go, now, and leave me alone; 
some other time. I’ll talk more.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


207 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

REUNION. 

W EEK after week glided away in the St. Clare man- 
sion, and the waves of life settled back to their 
usual flow, where that little bark had gone 

down. 

Still St. Clare was, in many respects, another man. lie 
read his little Eva^s Bible seriously and honestly; be 
thought more soberly and practically of his relations to 
his servants, — enough to make him extremely dissatisfied 
with both his past and present course; and one thing he 
did, as soon as he could bring it about, and that was to 
commence the legal steps necessary to Tom’s emancipation, 
which was to be perfected as soon as he could get through 
the necessary formalities. Meantime, he attached himself 
to Tom more and more, every day. 

“Well, Tom,” said St. Clare, the day after he had com- 
menced the legal formalities for his enfranchisement, “I’m 
going to make a free man of you; — so, have your trunk 
packed, and get ready to set out for Kentuck.” 

The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom’s face as he 
raised his hands to heaven, his emphatic “Bless the Lord !” 
rather discomposed St. Clare; he did not like it that Tom 
should be so ready to leave him. 


208 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


“You haven’t had such very had times here, that you 
need he i* such a rapture, Tom,” he said, drily. 

“Xo, no, Mas’r! ’tan’t that, — it’s bein’ a free man! 
That’s what I’m joyin’ for.” 

“Why, Tom, don’t you think, for your own part, you’ve 
been better off than to he free?” 

“Xo, indeed, Mas’r St. Clare,” said Tom, with a flash 
of energy. “'Xo, indeed !” 

“Why, Tom, you couldn’t possibly have earned, by your 
work, such clothes and such living as I have given you.” 

“Knows all that, Mas’r St. Clare; Mas’r’s been too good; 
l)ut, Mas’r, I’d rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor 
everything, and have ’em mine, than have the best, and 
have ’em any man’s else, — I had so, Mas’r; I think it’s 
natur, ]\fas’r.” 

“I suppose so, Tom, and you’ll be going off and leaving 
me, in a month or so,” be added, rather discontentedly. 
“Though why you shouldn’t go, no mortal knows,” he said, 
in a gayer tone; and, getting up, he began to walk the 
floor. 

“Xot while IMas’r is in trouble,” said Tom., “I’ll stay 
with Mas’r as long as he wants me, — so as I can be any 
use.” 

“Xot while I’m in trouble, Tom?” said St. Clare, look- 
ing sadly out of the window “And when will my 

trouble be over?” 

“When Mas’r St. Clare’s a Christian,” said Tom. 

“And you really mean to stay by till that day comes?” 
said St. Clare, half smiling, as he turned from the window, 
and laid his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Ah, Tom, you 


Life Among the Lowly. 


209 


soft, silly boy ! I won’t keep you till that day. Go home 
to your wife and children, and give my love to all.” 

Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she 
could feel anything. Poor old Mammy, in particular, 
whose heart, severed from all natural domestic ties, had 
consoled itself with this one beautiful being, was almost 
heart-broken. 

Miss Ophelia felt the loss; hut, in her good and honest 
heart, it bore fruit unto everlasting life. She was mare 
softened, more gentle; and, though equally assiduous in 
every duty, it was with a chastened and quiet air, as one 
who communed with her own heart not in vain. She was 
more diligent in teaching Topsy, — taught her mainly from 
the Bible, — did not any longer shrink from her touch, or 
manifest an ill-repressed disgust, because she felt none. 
Topsy did not become at once a saint; but the life and 
death of Eva did work a marked change in her. 

One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, 
she came, hastily thrusting something into her bosom. 

^‘What are vou doing there, you limb? You’ve been 
stealing something, T’ll be bound,” said the imperious little 
"Rosa, who had been sent to call her. 

^‘You go ’long. Miss Bosa!” said Topsy, pulling from 
her; ^^’tan’t none o’ your business!” 

“None o’ your sa’ce!” said Bosa. “I saw you hiding 
something, — I know yer tricks.” Tlie clamor and confu- 
sion drew Miss Ophelia and St. Clare both to the spot. 

“She’s been stealing!” said Bosa. 

“I han’t neither!” cried Topsy, sobbing with passion. 

“Give me that, whatever it is!” said Miss Ophelia, firinly. 
14 


210 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


Topsy hesitated; but, on a second order, pulled out of 
her bosom a little parcel done up in the foot of one of her 
own old stockings. 

Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a small book, 
which had been given to Topsy by Eva, containing a single 
verse of Scripture, arranged for every day in the year, and 
in a paper the curl of hair that she had given her on that 
memorable day when she had taken her last farewell. 

St. Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it; the 
little book had been rolled in a long strip of black crape, 
torn from the funeral weeds. 

‘‘What did you wrap this round the book for?” said St. 
Clare, holding up the crape. 

“Cause, — cause, — cause ’t was Miss Eva. 0, don’t take 
’em away, please!” she said; and, sitting flat down on the 
floor, and putting her apron over her head, she began to 
sob vehemently. 

St. Clare smiled; but there were tears in his eyes, as he 
said, “Come, come, — don’t cry; you shall have them!” 
and, putting them together, he threw them into her lap, 
and drew Miss Ophelia with him into the parlor. 

“The child has improved greatly,” said Miss Ophelia. 
“I have great hopes of her; but, Augustine,” she said, lay- 
ing her hand on his arm, “one thing I want to ask; whose 
is this child to be?— yours or mine?” 

“Why, I gave her to you,” said Augustine. 

“But not legally;— I want her to be mine legally,” said 
l\riss Ophelia. 

“Well, well,” said St. Clare, “T will;” and he sat down, 
and unfolded a newspaper to read. 

“But I want it done now,” said Miss Ophelia, 


Life Among the Lowly. 


211 


“What’s your hurry?” 

“Because now is the only time there ever is to do a 
thing in,” said ]\riss Ophelia. “Come, now, here’s a paper, 
pen, and ink; just write a paper.” 

“Why, what’s the matter?” said he. “Can’t you take 
my word?” 

“I want to make sure of it,” -said Miss Ophelia. “You 
may die, or fail, and then Topsy be hustled off to auction, 
spite of all I can do.” 

“Well, seeing I’m in the hands of a Yankee, there is 
nothing for it but to concede;” and St. Clare rapidly wrote 
off a deed of gift, which, as he was well versed in the 
forms of law, he could easily do, and signed his name to 
it in sprawling capitals, concluding by a tremendous 
flourish. 

“There, isn’t that black and white, now. Miss Ver- 
mont?” he said, as he handed it to her. 

“Good hoy,” said Miss Ophelia, smiling. “But must it 
not be witnessed ?” 

“0, bother ! — yes. Here,” he said, opening the door into 
Marie’s apartment, “Marie, Cousin wants your autograph ; 
just put your name down here.” 

“What’s this?” said Marie, as she ran over the paper. 
“Eidiculous! I thought Cousin was too pious for such 
horrid things,” she added, as she carelessly wrote her 
name; “but, if she has a fancy for that article. I’m sure 
she’s welcome.” 

“There, now, she’s yours, body and soul,” said St. Clare, 
handing the paper. 

“No more mine now than she was before,” said Miss 


212 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


Ophelia. “Nobody but God has a right to give her to 
me; but I can protect her now.” 

“Dear little Eva, — poor child !” said St. Clare, “she had 
set her little simple soul on a good work for me.” 

It was the first time since Eva’s death that he had ever 
said as many words as these of her, and he spoke now 
evidently repressing very strong feeling. 

Miss Ophelia did not reply. There was a pause of some 
moments; and St. Clare’s countenance was overcast by a 
sad, dreamy expression. 

“I don’t know what makes me think of my mother so 
much, to-night,” he said. “I have a strange kind of feel- 
ing, as if she were near me. I keep thinking of things 
she used to say. Strange, what brings these past things 
so vividly back to us, sometimes!” 

St. Clare walked up and down the room for some min- 
utes more, and then said, 

“I believe I’ll go down street, a few moments, and hear 
the news to-night.” 

He took his tiat, and passed out. 

Tom followed him to the passage, out of the court, and 
asked if he should attend him. 

“No, my boy,” said St. Clare. “I shall be back in an 
hour.” 

Tom sat down in the verandah. It was a beautiful 
moonlight evening, and he sat watching the rising and 
falling spray of the fountain, and listening to its murmur. 
Tom thought of h'is home, and that he should soon be a 
free man, and able to return to it at will. He thought 
li,ow he should work to buy his wife and boys. He felt 
the muscles of his brawny arms with a sort of joy, as he 


Life Among the Lowly. 


213 


thought they would soon belong to himself, and how much 
they could do to work out the freedom of his family. 
Then he thought of his noble young master, and, ever 



“A fatal stab in the side.” 

second to that, came the habitual prayer that he had al- 
ways offered for him; and then liis thoughts passed on to 
the beautiful Eva, whom he now tliought of among the 


214 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


angels; and he thought till he almost fancied that that 
bright face and golden hair were looking upon him, out 
of the spray of the fountain. And, so musing, he fell 
asleep, and dreamed he saw her coming bounding towards 
him, just as she used to come, witli a wreath of jessamine 
in her hair, her cheeks bright, and her eyes radiant with 
delight; but, as he looked, she seemed to rise from the 
ground; her cheeks wore a paler hue, — her eyes had a 
deep, divine radiance, a golden halo seemed around her 
head, — and she vanished from his sight; and Tom was 
awakened by a loud knocking, and a sound of many voices 
at the gate. 

He hastened to undo it ; and, with smothered voices and 
heavy tread, came several men, bringing a body, wrapped 
in a cloak, and lying on a shutter. The light of the lamp 
fell full on the face; and Tom gave a wild cry of amaze- 
ment and despair, that rung through all the galleries, as 
the men advanced, with their burden, to the open parlor 
door, where Miss Ophelia still sat knitting. 

St. Clare had turned into a cafe, to look over an evening 
paper. As he was reading, an affray arose between two 
gentlemen in the room, wlio were both partially intoxi- 
cated. St. Clare and one or two others made an effort to 
separate them, and St. Clare received a fatal stab in the 
side with a bowie-knife, which he was attempting to wrest 
from one of them. 

The house was full of cries and lamentations, shrieks 
and screams ; servants frantically tearing their hair, throw- 
ing themselves on the ground, or running distractedly 
about, lamenting. Tom and Miss Ophelia alone seemed 


Life Among the Lowly. 


215 


to have any presence of mind; for Marie was in strong 
hysteric convulsions. 

The physician now arrived, and made his examination, 
but it was evident, from the expression of his face, that 
there was no hope. 

‘‘IS’ow,’’ said the physician, ‘Ve must turn all these 
creatures out; all depends on his being kept quiet.’’ 

St. Clare could say hut little; he lay with his eyes shut, 
but it was evident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. 
After a while, he laid his hand on Tom’s, who was kneel- 
ing beside him, and said, “^Tom! poor fellow!” 

“What, Mas’r?” said Tom, earnestl}^ 

“I am dying!” said St. Clare, pressing his hand; 
“pray !” 

And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for 
the soul that was passing, — the soul that seemed looking 
so steadily and mournfully from those large, melancholy 
blue eyes. It was literally prayer offered with strong 
crying and tears. 

When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and 
took his hand, looking earnestly at him, but saying noth- 
ing. He closed his eyes, but still retained his hold; for, 
in the gates of eternity, the black hand and the white 
hold each other with an equal clasp. He murmured softly 
to himself words that he had been singing during the 
evening, 

“His mind is wandering,” said the doctor, 

“Ho! it is coming Home, at last!” said St. Clare, ener- 
getically; “at last! at last!” 

The effort of speaking exhausted him. The sinking 
paleness of death fell on him; but with it there fell, as 


216 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


if shed from the wings of some pitying spirit, a beautiful 
expression of peace, like that of a wearied child who 
sleeps. So he lay for a few moments. Just before the 
spirit parted, he opened his eyes, with a sudden light, as 
of joy and recognition, and said. “Mother!” and then he 
was gone! 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THli; UNPROTECTED. 

I T was about a fortnight after the funeral, that Miss 
Ophelia, busied one day in her apartment, heard a 
gentle tap at the door. She opened it, and there 
stood Rosa. 

“0, Miss Feely,” she said, falling on her knees, and 
catching the skirt of her dress, “do, do go to Miss Marie 
for me! do plead for me! She’s goin’ to send me out to 
be whipped, — look there!” And she handed to Miss 
Ophelia a paper. 

It was an order, written in Marie’s delicate Italian 
hand, to the master of a whipping establishment, to give 
the bearer fifteen lashes. 

“What have you been doing?” said Miss Ophelia. 

“You know. Miss Feely, I’ve got such a bad temper; 



Life Among the Lowly. 217 

it^s very bad of me. I was trying on Miss Marie’s dress, 
and she slapped my face: and I spoke out before I thought, 
and was saucy; and she said that she’d bring me down, 
and have me know, once for all, that I wasn’t going to be 


“Do plead for me.” 

% 

so topping as I had been; and she wrote this, and says 1 
shall carry it. I’d. rather she’d kill me, right out.” 

Miss Ophelia stood considering with the paper in her 
hand. 

‘‘You see, IMiss Feely,” said Rosa, “I don’t mind the 
whipping so much, if Miss Marie or you was to do it; but. 




218 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


to be sent to a man ! and such a horrid man, — the shame 
of it, Miss Feely!” 

All the honest blood of womanhood, the strong New 
England blood of liberty, flushed to Miss Ophelia’s cheeks, 
but she mastered herself, and, crushing the paper firmly 
in her hand, she merely said to Eosa, 

“Sit down, child, while I go to your mistress.” 

She found Marie sitting up in her easy-chair. 

“I came,” said Miss Ophelia, “to speak with you about 
poor Eosa.” 

“Well, what about her?” 

“She is very sorry for her fault.” 

*‘She is, is she ? She’ll be sorrier, before I’ve done with 
her! I’ve endured that child’s impudence long enough; 
and now I’ll bring her down, — I’ll make her lie in the 
dust !” 

“But, Cousin, consider that, if you destroy delicacy and 
a sense of shame in a young girl, you deprave her very 
fast.” 

“Delicacy!” said Marie, with a scornful laugh, — “a fine 
word for such as she! I’ll teach her, with all her airs, 
that she’s no better than the raggedest black wench that 
walks the streets! She’ll take no more airs with me!” 

It was hard to go back and tell Eosa that she could ck) 
nothing for her; and, shortly after, one of the man-serv- 
ants came to say that her mistress had ordered him to 
take Eosa with him to the Avhipping house, whither she 
Avas hurried, in spite of her tears and entreaties. 

A few days after, ^om Avas standing musing by the 
balconies, Avhen he Avas joined by Adolph. 


Life Among the Lowly. 219 

“Do ye know, Tom, that we’ve all got to be sold ?” said 
Adolph. 

“How did you hear that?” said Tom. 

“I hid myself behind the curtains when Missis was talk- 
ing with the lawyer. In a few days we shall all be sent 
off to auction, Tom.” 

“The Lord’s will be done!” said Tom, folding his arms 
and sighing heavily. 

He sought Miss Ophelia, who, ever since Eva’s deatli, 
had treated him with marked and respectful kindness. 

“Miss Feely,” he said, “Mas’r St. Clare promised me my 
freedom. He told me that he had begun to take it out for 
me; and now, perhaps, if Miss Feely would be good 
enough to speak about it to Miss.is, she would feel like 
goin’ on with it, as it was Mas’r St. Clare’s wish.” 

“I’ll speak for you, Tom, and do my best,” said ]\Iiss 
Ophelia; but, if it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can’t hope 
much for you; — nevertheless, I will try.” 

She found Marie reclining at length upon a lounge, 
supporting herself on one elbow by pillows, while Jane, 
who had been out shopping, was displaying before her cer- 
tain samples of thin black stuffs. 

“That will do,” said Marie, selecting one; “only I’m not 
sure about its being properly mourning.” 

“There’s one thing I wanted to speak with you about,” 
said Miss Ophelia. “Augustine promised Tom his liberty, 
and began the legal forms necessary to it. I hope you 
will use your influence to have it perfected.” 

“Indeed, I shall do no such thing!” said Marie, sharply. 
“Tom is one of the most valuable servants on the place,— 


2m 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


it couldn’t be afforded, any way. Besides what does he 
want of liberty ? He’s a great deal better off as he is,” 

‘‘But he does desire it, very earnestly, and his master 
promised it,” said Miss Ophelia. 

“I dare say he does want it,” said Marie. “Keep a 
negro under the care of a master, and he does well enough, 
and is respectable; but set them free, and they get lazy, 
and won’t work, and take to drinking, and go all down to 
be mean, worthless fellows. I’ve seen it tried, hundreds 
of times.” 

“But Tom is so steady, industrious, and pious.” 

“0, you needn’t tell me ! I’ve seen a hundred like him. 
lie’ll do very well, as long as he’s taken care of, — that’s 
all.” 

“Well,” said Miss Ophelia, energetically, “I know it was 
one of the last wishes of your husband that Tom should 
have his liberty; it was one of the promises that he made 
to dear little Eva on her death-bed, and I should not 
think you would feel at liberty to disregard it.” 

Marie had her face covered with her handkerchief at 
this appeal, and began sobbing and using her smelling- 
bottle, with great vehemence. 

“Everybody goes against me!” she said. “It’s so hard, 
that when I had only one daughter, she should have been 
taken! — and when I had a husband that just exactly 
suited me, — and I’m so hard to be suited! — he should be 
taken! And you seem to have so little feeling for me, 
and keep bringing it up to me so carelessly, — when you 
know how it overcomes me!” And Marie sobbed, and 
gasped for breath, and called Mammy to open the window, 
and to bring her the camphor-bottle, and to bathe her 


Life Among the Lowly. 


221 


head, and unhook her dress. And, in the general confu- 
sion tliat ensued, Miss Ophelia made her escape to her 
apartment. 

She saw, at once, that it would do no good to say any- 
thing more; for Marie had an indefinite capacity for hys- 
teric fits, but she did the next best thing she could for 
Tom, — she wrote a letter to Mrs. Shelby for him, stating 
his troubles, and urging them to send to his relief. 

The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half a dozen 
other servants, were marched down to a slave warehouse, 
to await the convenience of the trader, who was going to 
make up a lot for auction, 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE SL.WE WAREHOUSE. 

I T was a day or two after the conversation between 
Marie and Miss Ophelia, that Tom, Adolph, and 
about half a dozen others of the St. Clare estate, 
were turned over to the loving kindness of Mr. Skeggs, 
the keeper of a depot on street, to await the auc- 

tion, next day. 

Tom had with him quite a sizable trunk full of clothing, 
as had most others of them. Thev were ushered, for the 

II 


222 


Uncle Tom^s Cabin; or 


night, into a long room, where many other men, of all 
ages, sizes, and shades of complexion, were assembled. 

This was the men’s sleeping room, and the reader may 
be curious to take a peep at the corresponding apartment 
allotted to the women. Stretched out in various attitudes 
over the floor, he may see numberless sleeping forms of 
every shade of complexion, from the purest ebony to 
white, and of all years, from childhood to old age, lying 
now asleep. Here is a fine bright girl, of ten years, whose 
mother was sold only yesterday, and who to-night cried 
herself to sleep when nobody was looking at her. Here, 
a worn old negress, whose thin arms and callous fingers 
tell of hard toil, waiting to be sold to-morrow, as a cast- 
''ff article, for what can be got for her; and some forty or 
fifty others, with heads variously enveloped in blankets 
or articles of clothing, lie stretched around them. But, 
in a corner, sitting apart from the rest, are two females 
of a more interesting appearance than common. One of 
these is a respectably-dressed mulatto woman between 
forty and fifty, with soft eyes and a gentle and pleasing 
physiognomy. By her side, and nestling close to her, is a 
young girl of fifteen, — her daughter. She is a quadroon, 
as may be seen from her fair complexion, though her like- 
ness to her mother is quite discernible. She has the same 
soft, dark eye, with longer lashes, and her curling hair 
is of a luxuriant brown. These two are to be sold to- 
morrow, in the same lot with the St. Clare servants; and 
the gentleman to whom they belong, and to whom the 
money for their sale is to be transmitted, is a member of 
a Christian church in Hew York, who will receive the 



Life Among the Lowly. 223 

money, and go thereafter to the sacrament of his Lord and 
theirs, and think no more of it. 

These two, whom we shall call Susan and Emmeline, 
had been the personal attendants of an amiable and pious 
lady of New Orleans, by whom they had been carefully 


“ All ages, sizes, and shades of complexion.” 

and piously instructed and trained, and their lot had been 
as happy an one as in their condition it was possilile to bo. 
But the only son of their protectress had the management 
of her property; and, by carelessness and extravagance in- 
volved it to a large amount, and at last failed. Susan 


234 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


and Emmeline were attached by his creditors and sent to 
the depot to await a general auction on the following 
morning. 

“Mother, just lay your head on my lap, and see if you 
can’t sleep a little,” says the girl, trying to appear calm. 

“I haven’t any heart to sleep, Em; I can’t; it’s the last 
night we may be together!” 

“0, mother, don’t say so! perhaps we shall get sold to- 
gether, — who knows?” 

“If ’t was anybody’s else case, I should say so, too, Em,” 
said the woman; “but I’m so feard of losin’ you that I 
don’t see anything but the danger.” 

“Why, mother, the man said we were both likely, and 
Avould sell well.” 

Susan remembered the man’s looks and words. With 
a deadly sickness at her heart, she remembered how he 
had looked at Emmeline’s hands, and lifted up her curly 
hair, and pronounced her a first-rate article. 

“Mother, I think we might do first rate, if you could 
get a place as cook, and I as chambermaid or seamstress, 
in some family. I dare say we shall. Let’s both look as 
bright and lively as we can, and tell all we can do, and 
])erhaps we shall,” said Emmeline. 

“I want you to brush your hair all back straight to- 
morrow,” said Susan. 

“What for, mother? I don’t look near so well, that 
way.” 

“Yes, but you’ll sell better so.” 

“I don’t see why!” said the child. 

“Respectable families would be more apt to buy you, 
if they saw you looked plain and decent, as if you wasn’t 


Life Among the Lowly. 225 

trying to look handsome. I know their ways better’n you 
do/’ said Susan, 

‘‘Well, mother, then I will.” 

But now it is morning, and everybody is astir; and the 



“Where’s your curls, gal?’’ 


worthy Mr. Skeggs is busy and bright, for a lot of goods 
is to be fitted out for auction. There is a brisk look-out 
on the toilet; injunctions passed around to every one to 
put on their best face and be spry; and now all are ar- 
15 


226 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


ranged in a circle for a last review, before they are 
marched up to the Bourse. 

Mr. Skeggs, with his palmetto hat on and his cigar in 
his mouth, walks around to put farewell touches on his 
wares. 

“How’s this?” he said, stepping in front of Susan and 
Emmeline. “Where’s your curls, gal?” 

The girl looked timidly at her mother, who, with the 
smooth adroitness common among her class, answers, 

“I was telling her, last night, to put up her hair smooth 
and neat, and not havin’ it flying about in curls; looks 
more respectable so.” 

“Bother!” said the man, peremptorily, turning to the 
girl; “you go right along, and curl yourself real smart!” 
He added, giving a crack to a rattan he held in his hand, 
“And be back in quick time, too!” 

“You go and help her,” he added, to the mother. “Them 
curls may make a hundred dollars difference in the sale of 
her.” 

A little before the sale commenced, a short, broad, 
muscular man elbowed his way through the crowd. His 
round, bullet head, large, light-gray eyes, with their 
shaggy, sandy eye-brows, and stiff, wiry, sun-burned hair, 
were rather unprepossessing items, it is to be confessed; 
his large, coarse mouth was distended with tobacco, the 
juice of which, from time to time, he ejected from him 
with great decision and explosive force; his hands were 
immensely large, hairy, sun-burned, freckled, and very 
dirty, and garnished with long nails, in a very foul condi- 
tion. This man proceeded to a very free personal exam-* 
ination of the lot. He seized Tom by the jaw, and pulled 


Life Among the Lowly. 


227 


open his mouth to inspect his teeth: made him strip up 
liis sleeve, to show his muscle; turned him round, made 
him jump and spring to show his paces. 

‘‘Where was you raised ?” said he. 

“In Kentuek, Mas^r,” said Tom. 

“What have you done?” 

“Had care of Mas’r’s farm,” said Tom. 

“Likely story!” said the other, shortly, as he passed on. 
He paused a moment before Dolph; then spitting a dis- 
charge of tobacco juice on his well-blacked boots, and 
giving a contemptuous umph, he walked on. Again he 
stopped before Susan and Emmeline. He put out his 
heavy dirty hand, and drew the girl towards him; passed 
it over her neck and bust, felt her arms, looked at her 
teeth, and then pushed her back against her mother. The 
girl was frightened, and began to cry. 

“Stop that, you minx!” said the salesman; “no whim- 
pering here, — the sale is going to begin.” 

Adolph was knocked off, at a good sum, to a young 
gentleman who had previously stated his intention of 
buying him; and the other servants of the St. Clare lot 
went to various bidders. 

“How, up with you, boy! d’ ye hear?” said the auc- 
tioneer to Tom. 

Tom stepped upon the block, gave a few anxious looks 
round ; all seemed mingled in a common, indistinct noise, 
— the clatter of the salesman crying off his qualifications 
in French’ and English, the quick fire of French and Eng- 
lish bids; and almost in a moment came the final thump 
of the hammer, and the clear ring on the last syllable of 


228 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


the Avord “dollars,” as the auctioneer announced his price, 
and Tom was made over. — He had a master! 

The bidding went on, — rattling, clattering, noAV French, 
now English, Down goes the hammer again, — Susan is 
sold. She looks with agony in the face of the man who 
has bought her, — a respectable middle-aged man, of benev- 
olent countenance. 

“0, Mas’r, please do buy my daughter!” 

“I’d like to, but I’m afraid I can’t afford it!” said the 
gentleman, looking, with painful interest, as the young 
girl mounted the block, and looked around her with a 
frightened and timid glance. 

The blood flushes painfully in her otherwise colorless 
cheek, her eye has a feverish fire, and her mother groans 
to see that she looks more beautiful than she ever saw her 
before. The auctioneer sees his advantage, and expatiates 
volubly in mingled French and English, and bids rise in 
rapid succession. 

“I’ll do anything in reason,” said the benevolent-looking 
gentleman, pressing in and joining with the bids. In a few 
moments they have run beyond his purse. He is silent; 
the auctioneer grows Avarmer; but bids gradually drop off. 
It lies now between an aristocratic old citizen and our 
bullet-headed acquaintance. The citizen bids for a few 
turns, contemptuously measuring his opponent; but the 
bullet-head has the advantage over him, both in obstinacy 
and concealed length of purse, and the controversy lasts 
but a moment; the hammer falls, — he has got the girl, 
body and soul, unless God help her! 

Her master is Mr. Degree, who owns a cotton plantation 
on the Red River. She is pushed along into the same lot 



Life Among the I.owly. 229 

with Tom and two other men, and goes off, weeping as she 
goes. 


“The auctioneer grows warmer.” 


230 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE MIDDLE PASSAGE. 

O X the lower part of a small, mean boat, on the Ked 
Kiver, Tom sat, — chains on his wrists, chains on 
his feet, and a weight heavier than chains lay on 
his heart. ' 

Mr. Simon Legree, Tom’s master, had purchased slaves 
at one place and another, in Xew Orleans, to the number 
of eight, and driven them, handcuffed, in couples of two 
and two, down to the good steamer Pirate, which lay at the 
le.vee, ready for a trip up the Eed Eiver. 

Stopping opposite to Tom, who had been attired for 
sale in his best broadcloth suit, with u^ell-starched linen 
and shining boots, he briefly said: 

“Stand up.” 

Tom stood up. 

“Take off that stock!” and, as Tom, encumbered by his 
fetters, proceeded to do it, he assisted him, by pulling it, 
with no gentle hand, from his neck, and putting it in his 
pocket. 

I^egree now turned to Tom’s trunk, which, previous to 
this he had been ransacking, and, taking from it a pair of 
old pantaloons and a dilapidated coat, which Tom had 
been wont to put on about his stable-work, he said, liber- 


Life Among the Lowly. 


331 


ating Tom’s hands from the handcuffs, and pointing to a 
recess in among the boxes, 

‘‘You go there, and put these on.” 

Tom obeyed, and in a few moments returned. 

“Take off your boots,” said Mr. Legree. 

Tom did so. 

“There,” said the former, throwing him a pair of coarse 
stout shoes, such as were common among the slaves, “put 
these on.” 

In Tom’s hurried exchange, he had not forgotten to 
transfer his cherished Bible to his pocket. It was well he 
did so; for Mr. Legree, having refitted Tom’s handcuffs, 
proceeded deliberately to investigate the contents of his 
pockets. He drew out a silk handkerchief, and put it into 
his own pocket. Several little trifles, which Tom had 
treasured, chiefly because they had amused Eva, he looked 
upon with a contemptuous grunt, and tossed them over his 
shoulder into the river. 

Tom’s Methodist hymn-book, which, in his hurry, he 
had forgotten, he now held up and turned over. 

“Humph ! pious to be sure. So, what’s yer name, — ^you 
belong to the church, eh ?” 

“Yes, Mas’r,” said Tom, firmly. 

“Well, I’ll soon have that out of you. I have none o’ 
yer bawling, praying, singing niggers on my place; so re- 
member. How, mind yourself,” he said, with a stamp 
and a fierce glance of his gray eye, directed at Tom, “I’m 
your church now! You understand, — ^you’ve got to be as 
I say.” 

Simon next walked up to the remainder of his property. 

“I say, all on ye,” he said, retreating a pace or two 


232 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


back, “look at me, — look at me, — look me right in the 
eye, — straight, now!” said he, stamping his foot at every 
pause. 



“D’ye see this fist?” 


Every eye was directed to the glaring greenish-gray eye 
of Simon. 

“Xow,” said he, doubling his great, heavy fist, “d’ ye 
see this fist? Heft it!” he said, bringing it down on Tom’s 
hand. “Look at these.yer bones ! .Well, I tell ye this yer 


Life Among the Lowly. 


233 


fist has got as hard as iron knocking down niggers. I 
never see the nigger, yet, I couldn’t bring down with one 
crack,” said he, bringing his fist down so near to the face 
of Tom that he winked and drew back. “I don’t keep 
none o’ yer cussed overseers; I does my own overseeing; 
and I tell you things is seen to. You’s every one on ye 
got to toe the mark, I tell ye; quick, — straight, — the mo- 
ment I speak. That’s the way to keep in with me. I'e 
won’t find no soft spot in me, nowhere. So, now, mind 
yerselves, for I don’t show no mercy!” 

Then Simon turned on his heel, and marched up to the 
bar of the boat for a dram. 

‘‘That’s the way I begin with my niggers,” he said, to 
a gentlemanly man, who had stood by him during his 
speech. “It’s my system to begin strong, — just let ’em 
know what to expect.” 

“How long do they generally last?” said the stranger. 

“Well, donno; ’cordin’ as their constitution is. Stout 
fellers last six or seven years ; trashy ones gets worked up 
in two or three. I just put ’em straight through, sick or 
well. When one nigger’s dead, I buy another; and I find 
it comes cheaper and easier, every way.” 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


2U 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

DARK PLACES. 

T RAILINC wearily behind a rude wagon, and over a 
ruder road, Tom and his associates faced onward. 
In the wagon was seated Simon Legree ; Em and a 
mulatto woman, fettered together, w'ere stowed aw'ay with 
some baggage in the back part of it, and the w^hole com- 
pany w'ere seeking Legree’s plantation, which lay a good 
distance off. 

Simon rode on, however, apparently well pleased, occa- 
sionally pulling aw'ay at a flask of spirit, which he kept in 
his pocket. 

The wagon rolled up a weedy gravel walk, under a noble 
avenue of China trees, and stopped in front of a house 
Avhich had been large and handsome, but now looked deso- 
late and uncomfortable. 

Bits of board, straw, old decayed barrels and boxes, 
garnished the ground in all directions; and three or four 
ferocious-looking dogs, roused by the sound of the wagon- 
wheels, came tearing out, and were with difflculty re- 
strained from laying hold of Tom and his companions, by 
the effort of the ragged servants Avho came after them. 
“Ye see wdiat ye’d get!” said Legree, caressing the dogs 
with grim satisfaction. “Ye see wdiat ye’d get, if ye try 


Life Among the Lowly. 


235 


to run off. These yer dogs has been raised to track nig- 
gers; and they’d Jest as soon chaw one on ye up as eat 
their supper. So, mind yerself! How now, Sambo!” he 
said, to a ragged fellow, without any brim to his hat, who 



“Trailing wearily behind a rude wagon.” 

was officious in his attentions. “How have things been 
going ?” 

“Fust rate, Mas’r.” 

“Quimho,” said Legree to another, who was making 


236 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


zealous demonstrations to attract his attention, “ye 
minded what I telled ye ?” 

“Guess I did, didn’t I ?” 

These two colored men were the two principal hands 
on the plantation. Legree had trained them in savage- 
ness and brutality as systematically as he had his bull- 
dogs; and, by long practice in hardness and cruelty, 
brought their whole nature to about the same range of 
capacities. Sambo and Quimbo cordially hated each 
other; the plantation hands, one and all, cordially hated 
them; and, by playing off one against another, he was 
pretty sure, through one or the other of the three parties, 
to get informed of whatever was on foot in the place. 

“Here, you Sambo,” said Legree, “take these yer boys 
down to the quarters; and here’s a gal I’ve got for you,” 
said he, as he separated the mulatto woman from Emme- 
line, and pushed her towards him; — “I promised to bring 
you one, you know.” 

The woman gave a sudden start, and, drawing back, said 
suddenly. 

“0, Mas’r! T left my old man in New Orleans.” 

“What of that? None o’ your words, — go long!” said 
Legree, raising his whip. 

“Come, mistress,” he said to Emmeline, “you go in here 
with me.” 

A dark, wild face was seen, for a moment, to glance at 
the window of the house; and, as Legree opened the door, 
a female voice said something, in a quick, imperative tone. 
Tom, who was looking, with anxious interest, after Emme- 
line, as she went in, noticed this, and heard Legree answer. 



“Yo see what ye'd get!" 


237 








338 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

angrily, “You may hold your tongue! I’ll do as I please, 
for all you!” 

Tom heard no more; for he was soon following Sambo 
to the quarters. The quarters was a little sort of street 
of rude shanties, in a row, in a part of the plantation, far 
off from the house. They had a forlorn, brutal, forsaken air. 

“Which of these will be mine ?” said he, to Sambo, sub- 
missively. 

“Dunno ; ken turn in here, I spose,” said Sambo ; “spects 
thar’s room for another thar; thar’s a pretty smart heap 
o’ niggers to each on ’em, now; sure, I dunno what I’s to 
do with more.” 

It was late in the evening when the weary occupants of 
the shanties came flocking home, and began to contend 
for the hand-mills where their morsel of hard corn was yet 
to be ground into meal, to fit it for the cake that was to 
constitute their only supper. Tom looked in vain among 
the gang, as they poured along, for companionable faces. 
He saw only sullen, scowling, imbruted men, and feeble, 
discouraged women. 

Tom was hungry with his day’s journey, and almost 
faint for want of food. 

“Thar, yo!” said Quimbo, throwing down a coarse bag, 
which contained a peck of corn; “thar, nigger, grab, take 
car on ’t, — yo won’t get no more, dis yer week.” 

Tom waited till a late hour, to get a place at the mills; 
and then, moved by the utter weariness of two women, 
whom he saw trying to grind their corn there, he ground 
for them, put together the decaying brands of the fire, 
where many had baked cakes before them, and then went 


Life Among the Lowly. 


239 


about getting his own supper. It was a new kind of work 
there, — a deed of charity, small as it Avas; but it woke an 
answering touch in their hearts, — an expression of wo- 
manly kindness came over their hard faces; they mixed, 
his cake for him, and tended its baking; and Tom sat 
down by the light of the fire, and drew out his Bible, — 
for he had need of comfort. 

‘AVhat’s that?” said one of the women. 

*‘Why, the Bible.” 

“Laws a me! what’s dat?” said another woman. 

“Do tell ! you never hearn on ’t ?” said the other woman. 
“1 used to bar Missis a readin’ on ’t, sometimes, in Ken- 
tuck; but, laws o’ me! we don’t har nothin’ here but 
crackin’ and swarin’.” 

“Read a piece, anyways !” said the first woman, curiously, 
seeing Tom attentively poring over it. 

Tom read, — “Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are 
heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” 

“I jest wish I know’d whar to find Him,” said the 
woman. “I would go; ’pears like I never should get rested 
agin. My flesh is fairly sore, and I tremble all over, every 
day, and Sambo ’s allers a jawin’ at me, ’cause I doesn’t 
pick faster. If I knew whar de Lor’ was, I’d tell Him.” 

“He’s here, he’s everywhere,” said Tom. 

“Lor, you an’t gwine to make me belieA^e dat ar! I 
know de Lord an’t here,” said the woman ; “ ’tan’t no use 
talking, though. I’s jest gwine to camp down, and sleep 
while I ken.” 

The women went off to their cabins, and Tom sat alone, 
by the smouldering fire, that flickered up redly in his face. 


240 


Uncle Tom’s Ca¥m; or 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

CASSY. 

I T took but a short time to familiarize Tom with all 
that was to be hoped or feared in his new way of 
life, and Legree took silent note of Tom’s availabil- 
ity. He rated him as a first-class hand; and yet he felt a 
secret dislike to him, — the native antipathy of bad to good. 

One morning, when the hands were mustered for the 
field, Tom noticed, with surprise, a new comer among 
them, whose appearance excited his attention. It was a 
woman, tall and slenderly formed with remarkably deli- 
cate hands and feet, and dressed in neat and respectable 
garments. 

Where she came from, or who she was, Tom did not 
know. The first he did know, she was walking by his side, 
erect and proud, in the dim gray of the dawn. To the 
gang, however, she was known ; for there was much looking 
and turning of heads, and a smothered yet apparent exul- 
tation among the miserable, ragged, half-starved creatures 
by whom she was surrounded. 

“Got to come to it, at last, — glad of it!^’ said one. 

“He! he! he!” said another; “you’ll know how good it 
is, Misse!” 

The woman took no notice of these taunts, but walked 
on, with the same expression of angry scorn. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


241 


In the course of the day, Tom was working near the 
mulatto woman who had been bought in the same lot with 
himself. She was evidently suffering, and Tom often 
heard her praying, as she wavered* and trembled, and 
seemed about to fall down. Tom silently, as he came near 
to her, transferred several handfuls of cotton from his 
own sack to hers. 

“0, don’t, don’t!” said the woman, looking surprised; 
‘fft’ll get you into trouble.” 

Just then Sambo came up. He seemed to have a special 
spite against this woman; and, flourishing his whip, said, 
in brutal, guttural tones, “What dis yer. Luce, — foolin’ 
a’?” and, with the word, kicking the woman with his 
heavy cowhide shoe, he struck Tom across the face with 
his whip. 

Tom silently resumed his task; but the woman fainted. 

“I ’ll bring her to 1” said the driver, with a brutal grin, 
and, taking a pin from his coat-sleeve, he buried it to the 
head in her flesh. The woman groaned, and half rose. 
“Get up, you beast, and work, will yer, or I ’ll show yer a 
trick more!” 

The woman seemed stimulated, for a few moments, to 
an unnatural strength, and worked with desperate eager- 
ness. 

“See that you keep to dat ar,” said the man, “or ye ’ll 
wish yer ’s dead to-night, I reckin!” 

At the risk of all that he might suffer, Tom came for- 
ward again, and put all the cotton in his sack into the 
woman’s. 

“0, you must n’t! you dunno what they ’ll do to ye!” 
said the woman. 

i6 


242 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

‘T can bar it !” said Tom, “better ’n you and he was at 
his place again. 

Suddenly, the stranger woman, who had come near 
enough to hear Tom’s last words, raised her heavy black 
eyes, and then, taking a quantity of cotton from her bas- 
ket, she placed it in his. 

“You know nothing about this place,” she said, “or you 
would n’t have done that. When you ’ve been here a 
month, you ’ll be done helping anybody ; you ’ll find it hard 
enough to take care of your own skin !” 

“The Lord forbid. Missis!” said Tom. 

“The Lord never visits these parts,” said the woman, 
bitterly, as she went nimbly forward with her work. 

But the action of the woman had been seen by the 
driver, across the field; and, flourishing his whip, he came 
up to her. 

“What! what!” he said to the woman, with an air of 
triumph, you a foolin’? Go along! yer under me now, — 
mind yourself, or yer ’ll ^cotch it !” 

A glance like sheet-lightning suddenly flashed from 
those black eyes; and, facing about, with quivering lip and 
dilated nostrils, she drew herself up, and fixed a glance, 
blazing with rage and scorn, on the driver. 

“Dog!” she said, “touch me, if you dare! I ’ve power 
enough, yet, to have you torn by the dogs, burnt alive, cut 
to inches! I ’ve only to say the word!” 

“What you here for, den ?” said tlie man, sullenly re- 
treating a step or two. “Did n’t mean no harm, Misse 
Gassy !” 

“Keep your distance, then !” said the woman, The man 





“Touch me, if you dare!'* 


243 








Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


3^4 

found something to attend to at the other end of the field, 
and started off quickly. 

When the day’s work was done, Legree stood conversing 
with the two drivers. 

‘‘Dat ar Tom ’s gwine to make a powerful deal o’ trou- 
ble; kept a puttin’ into Lucy’s basket. — One o’ these yer 
dat will get all der niggers to feelin’ ’bused, if Mas’r don’t 
watch him!” said Sambo. 

“Hey-dey! The black cuss !” said Legree. “He ’ll have 
to get a breakin’ in, won’t he, boys ?” 

Both negroes grinned a horrid grin, at this intimation. 

“Wal, boys, the best way is to give him the flogging to 
do, till he gets over his notions. Break him in 1” 

“Wal, Lucy was real aggravatin’ and lazy, siilkin’ round; 
would n’t do nothin’, — and Tom he tuck up for her.” 

“He did, eh! Wal, then, Tom shall have the pleasure of 
flogging her. It ’ll be a good practice for him, and he 
won’t put it on to the gal like you devils, neither.” 

Slowly the weary, dispirited creatures wound their way 
into the room, and, with crouching reluctance, presented 
their baskets to be weighed. 

Tom’s basket was weighed and approved, and he looked, 
with an anxious glance, for the success of the woman he 
had befriended. 

Tottering with weakness, she came forwvard, and deliv- 
ered her basket. It was of full weight, as Legree well per- 
ceived; but, affecting anger, he said, 

“What, you lazy beast! short again! stand aside, you ’ll 
catch it, pretty soon!” 

The woman gave a groan of utter despair, and sat down 
on a board. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


245 


‘‘Now/’ said Legree, “come here, you Tom. Ye jest 
take this yer gal and flog her; ye ’ve seen enough on ’t to 
know how.” 

“I beg Mas’r’s pardon,” said Tom; “hopes Mas’r won’t 
set me at that. It ’s M^hat I an’t used to, — never did, — and 
can’t do no way possible.” 

. “Ye ’ll larn a pretty smart chance of things ye never did 
know, before I ’ve done with ye !” said Legree, taking up a 
cowhide, and striking Tom a heavy blow across the cheek, 
and following up the infliction by a shower of blows. 

“There!” he said, as he stopped to rest; “now, will ye 
tell me ye can’t do it ?” 

“Yes, Mas’r,” said Tom, putting up his hand, to wipe 
the blood, that trickled down his face. “I ’m willin’ to 
work, night and day, and work while there ’s life and 
breath in me ; but this yer thing I can’t feel it right to do ; 
— and, Mas’r, I never shall do it, — never!” 

Legree looked stupifled and confounded; but at last 
hurst forth, — 

“What ! ye blasted black beast ! tell me ye don’t think it 
right to do what I tell ve ! So you pretend it ’s wrong to 
flog the gal !” 

“I think so, Mas’r,” said Tom ; “the poor crittur ’s sick 
and feeble; ’t would be downright cruel, and it ’s what I 
never will do, nor begin to. Mas’r, if you mean to kill me, 
kill me ; but as to my raising my hand agin anyone here, 
I never shall, — I’ll die first!” 

“Well, here ’s a pious dog, at last let down among us 
sinners ! An’t yer mine, body and soul ?” said Legree, giv- 
ing Tom a violent kick with his heavy boot; “tell me!” 

“No! no! no! my soul an’t yours, Mas’r! You have n’t 


24G 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


bought it, — ye can’t buy it! It ’s been bought and paid 
for, by One that is able to keep it ; — no matter, no matter, 
you can’t harm me !” 

‘T can’t!” said I.egree, with a sneer; ^Ve ’ll see, — we ’ll 
see! Here, Sambo, Quimbo, give this dog such a breakin’ 
in as he won’t get over, this month!” 

The two gigantic negroes laid hold of Tom, with fiendish 
exultation in their faces. The poor woman screamed with 
apprehension, and all rose, as by a general impulse, while 
they dragged him unresisting from the place. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE quadroon’s STORY. 

I T was late at night, and Tom lay groaning and bleed- 
ing alone, in an old forsaken room of the gin house, 
among pieces of broken machinery, piles of dam- 
aged cotton, and other rubbish which had there accu- 
mulated. 

The night was damp and close, and the thick air 
SAvarmed with myriads of mosquitoes, which increased the 
restless torture of his Avounds ; whilst a burning thirst — a 
torture beyond all others — filled up the uttermost measure 
of physical anguish. 


247 



Life Among the Lowly. 

^‘0, good Lord! Do look down, — give me the victory! — 
give me the victory over all!” prayed poor Tom, in his 
anguish. 

A footstep entered the room, behind him, and the light 
of a lantern flashed on his eyes. 


“Drink all ye want.” 

“Who ’s there? 0, for the Lord’s massy, please give me 
some water !” 

The w'onian Gassy — for it was she — set down her lan- 
tern, and pouring water from a bottle, raised his head, and 


248 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


gave him drink. Another and another cup were drained, 
with feverish eagerness. 

‘‘Drink all ye want,” she said; “I knew how it would be. 
It is n’t the first time I ’ve been out in the night, carrying 
water to such as you.” 

“Thank you, Missis,” said Tom, when he had done 
drinking. 

“Don’t call me Missis ! I ’m a miserable slave, like your- 
self, — a lower one than you can ever be!” said she, bitterly; 
“but now,” said she, going to the door, and dragging in a 
small mattress, over which she had spread linen cloths 
wet with cold water, “try, my poor fellow, to roll yourself 
on to this.” 

Stiff with wounds and bruises, Tom was a long time in 
accomplishing this movement; but, when done, he felt a 
sensible relief from the cooling application to his wounds. 

“Now,” said the woman, when she had raised his head 
on a roll of damaged cotton, which served for a pillow, 
“there ’s the best I can do for yon.” 

Tom thanked her; and the woman, sitting down on the 
floor, drew up her knees, and embracing them with her 
arms, looked fixedly before her, with a bitter and painful 
expression of countenance. 

“It ’s no use, my poor fellow!” she broke out, at last, 
“it ’s of no use, this you ’ve been trying to do. You were 
a brave fellow, — you had the right on your side; but it ’s 
all in vain, and out of the question, for you to struggle. 
You are in the devil’s hands; — he is the strongest, and 
you must give up!” 

“0 Lord! 0 Lord !” he groaned, “how can I give up?” 

“There ’s no use calling on the Lord, — He never hears,” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


249 


said the woman, steadily; ‘‘there is n’t any God, I believe; 
or, if there is. He ’s taken sides against us.” 

Tom closed his eyes, and shuddered at the dark, atheistic 
words. 

“You see,” said the woman, “you don’t know anything 
about it; — I do. I ’ve been on this place five years, body 
and soul, under this man’s foot; and I hate him as I do 
the devil! Here you are, on a lone plantation, ten miles 
from any other, in the swamps; not a white person here, 
who could testify, if you were burned alive, — if you were 
scalded, cut into inch pieces, set up for the dogs to tear, or 
hung up and whipped to death. There ’s no law here, of 
God or man, that can do for you, or any one of us, the least 
good; and this man! there ’s no earthly thing that he ’s 
too good to do. I could make anyone’s hair rise, and their 
teeth chatter, if I should only tell what I ’ve seen and been 
knowing to, here, — and it ’s no use resisting ! Did I want 
to live with him ? Was n’t I a woman delicately bred ; and 
he — God in heaven ! what was he, and is he? And yet I ’ve 
lived with him, these five years, and cursed every moment 
of my life, — night and day! And now, he ’s got a new one, 
— a young thing, only fifteen, and she brought up, she says, 
piously. Her good mistress taught her to read the Bible; 
and she ’s brought her Bible here — to hell with her!” — and 
the woman laughed a wild and doleful laugh, that rung, 
with a strange, supernatural sound, through the old ruined 
shed. 

Tom folded his hands; all was darkness and horror. 

There was a silence, a while, in which the breathing of 
both parties could be heard, when Tom faintly said, “0, 
please. Missis!” 


350 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


The woman suddenly rose up, with her face composed to 
its usual stern, melancholy expression. 

‘Tlease, Missis, I saw ’em throw my coat in that ar’ cor- 
ner, and in my coat pocket is my Bible; — if Missis would 
please get it for me.” 

Gassy went and got it. Tom opened, at once, to a heav- 
ily marked passage, much worn, of the last scenes in the 
life of Him by whose stripes we are healed. 

“li Missis would only be so good as read that ar’, — it ’s 
better than water.” 

Gassy took the book and began to read aloud. When she 
came to the words, “Father, forgive them, for they know 
not what they do,” she threw down the book, and burying 
her face in the heavy masses of her hair, she sobbed aloud, 
with a convulsive violence. 

Then she told him the story of her life. The pitiful 
story of a slave mother and a white father; of a child 
reared in luxury, sold to be the slave of man’s passions; 
and then the loss of her children, who were torn from her 
and sold as well. The common fate of a beautiful slave 
woman had been hers, and then, with faded beauty and a 
broken heart, a home, if it could be so called, with Legree. 

The woman stopped. She had hurried on through her 
story, with a wild, passionate utterance; sometimes seem- 
ing to address it to Tom, arid sometimes speaking as in a 
soliloquy. So vehement and overpowering was the force 
with which she spoke, that, for a season, Tom was beguiled 
even from the pain of his wounds, and, raising himself on 
one elbow, watched her as she paced restlessly up and 
down, her long black hair swaying heavily about her, as 
she moved. 


Life Among the Lowly. 251 

0, Missis, I wish you ’d go to FTim that can give you 
living waters!” 

“Go to Him! Where is He? Who is He ?” said Gassy. 

“Him that you read of to me, — the Lord.” 

“I used to see the picture of Him, over the altar, when I 
was a girl,” said Gassy, her dark eyes fixing themselves in 
an expression of mournful reverie; “but. He is n’t here! 
there ’s nothing here, but sin, and long, long, long despair ! 
0!” She laid her hand on her breast and drew in her 
breath, as if to lift a heavy weight. 

Tom looked as if he would speak again ; hut she cut him 
short, with a decided gesture. 

“Don’t talk, my poor fellow. Try to sleep, if you cai 
And, placing water in his reach, and making whate’ 
little arrangements for his comfort she could. Gassy 1 
the shed. 


GHAPTER XXXV. 

LEGREE AND GASSY. 

T he sitting-room of Degree’s establishment was a 
large, long room, with a wide, ample fireplace. In 
the fireplace stood a brazier full of burning char- 
coal ; for, although the weather was not cold, tlie evenings 
seemed damp and chilly in that great room; and Degree, 


252 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

moreover, wanted a place to light his cigars, and heat his 
water for punch. 

Legree was just mixing himself a tumbler of punch, 
pouring his hot water from a cracked and broken-nosed 
pitcher, grumbling, as he did so. 

‘Tlague on that Sambo, to kick up this yer row between 
me and the new hands! The fellow won’t be fit to work 
for a week, now, — right in the press of the season!” 

“Yes, just like you,” said a voice, behind his chair. It 
was the woman Gassy, who had stolen upon his soliloquy. 

“Hah ! you she-devil ! you ’ve come back, have you ?” 

“Yes, I have,” she said, coolly; “come to have my own 
way, too!” 

“You lie, you jade! I ’ll be up to my word. Either be- 
have yourself, or stay down to the quarters, and fare and 
work with the rest.” 

“Simon Legree, take care!” said the woman, with a 
sharp flash of her eye, a glance so wild and insane in its 
light as to be almost appalling. “You ’re afraid of me, 
Simon,” she said deliberately; “and you ’ve reason to be! 
But be careful, for I’ve got the devil in me !” 

The last words she whispered in a hissing tone, close to 
his ear. 

Gassy had always kept over Legree the kind of influence 
that a strong, impassioned woman can ever keep over the 
most brutal man; but, of late, she had grown more and 
more irritable and restless under the hideous yoke of her 
servitude. When Legree brought Emmeline to the house, 
all the smouldering embers of womanly feeling flashed up 
in the worn heart of Gassy, and she took part with the 
girl; and a fierce quarrel ensued between her and Legree, 


Life Among the Lowly. 


253 


Legree, in a fnry, swore she should be put to field service, 
if she would not be peaceable. Gassy, with proud scorn, 
declared she would go to the field. And she worked there 
one day, to show how perfectly she scorned the threat. 

“Blast it!” said Legree to himself, as he sipped his 



“You’re afraid of me, Simon.” 


liquor, after Gassy had slipped out of the room, “I ’m lone- 
some. I ^11 have Sambo and Quimho up here, to sing and 
dance one of their hell dances, and keep off these horrid 
notions;” and putting on his hat, he went on to the veran- 



254 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

dab, and blew a horn, with which he commonly summoned 
his two sable drivers. 

Legree was often wont, when in a gracious humor, to get 
these two worthies into his sitting-room, and, after warm- 
ing them up with whiske}', 
amuse himself by setting 
them to singing, dancing 
or fighting, as the humor 
took him. 

It was between one and 
two o’clock at night, as 
Cassy was returning from 
her ministrations to poor 
Tom, that she heard the 
sound of wild shrieking, 
whooping, hallooing, and 
singing, from the sitting- 
room, mingled with the 
barking of dogs, and other 
symptoms of general uproar. She came up on the veran- 
dah steps, and looked in. Legree and both the drivers, in 
a state of furious intoxication, were singing, whooping, 
upsetting chairs, and making all manner of ludicrous and 
horrid grimaces at each other. 

She turned hurriedly awaj", and, passing round to a back 
door, glided upstairs, and tapped at Emmeline’s door. 




Life Among the Lowly. 


255 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

EMMELINE AND GASSY. 

C ASSY entered the room, and found Emmeline sitting, 
pale with fear, in the furthest corner of it. As 
she came in, the girl started up nervously; but, on 
seeing who it was, rushed forward, and catching her arm, 
said: “0, Gassy, is it you? I was afraid it was — . 0, you 
don’t know what a horrid noise there has been, downstairs, 
all this evening!” 

‘T ought to know,” said Gassy, dryly. ‘T ’ve heard it 
often enough.” 

‘‘0, Gassy ! do tell me, — could n’t we get away from this 
place? I don’t care where, — into the swamp among the 
snakes, — anywhere! Gould n’t we get somewhere away 
from here?” 

^‘Xowhere, but into our graves,” said Gassy. 

“Did you ever try ?” 

“I ’ve seen enough of trying, and what comes of it,” said 
Gassy. 

“I ’d be willing to live in the swamps, and gnaw the bark 
from trees. I an’t afraid of snakes ! I ’d rather have one 
near me than him,” said Emmeline, eagerly. 

“There have been a good many here of your opinion,” 
said Gassy ; “but you could n’t stay in the swamps, — you ’d 


256 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

be tracked by the dogs, and brought back, and then — 
then — ” 

‘‘What would he do?” said the girl, looking, with breath- 
less interest, into her face. 

“What would n’t he do, you ’d better ask,” said Cassy. 
“He ’s learned his trade well, among the pirates in the 
West Indies. You would n’t sleep much, if I should tell 
you things I ’ve seen, — things that he tells of, sometimes, 
for good jokes. I ’ve heard screams here that I have n’t 
been able to get out of my head for weeks and weeks. 
There ’s a place way out down by the quarters, where you 
can see a black, blasted tree, and the ground all covered 
with black ashes. Ask anyone what was done there, and 
see if they will dare to tell you.” 

Emmeline turned away, and hid her face in her hands. 

While this conversation was passing in the chamber, Le- 
gree, overcome with his carouse, had sank to sleep in the 
room below. 

In the morning he woke with an oath and a curse, and, 
stumbling to his feet, poured out a tumbler of brandy and 
drank half of it. 

“I ’ve had a frightful night !” he said to Cassy, who just 
then entered from an opposite door. 

“You ’ll get plenty of the same sort, by and by,” said 
she, dryly. 

“What do you mean, you minx?” 

“You ’ll find out, one of these days,” returned Cassy, in 
the same tone. “Xow, Simon, I ’ve one piece of advice to 
give you. You let Tom alone.” 

“What business is ’t of yours ?” 

“What? To be sure, I don’t know what it should be. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


257 


If you want to pay twelve hundred for a fellow, and use 
him right up in the press of the season, just to serve your 
own spite, it ’s no business of mine. I Ve done what I could 
for him.^^ 

“You have? What business have you meddling in my 
matters?” 

“None, to be sure. I ’ve saved you some thousands of 
dollars, at different times, by taking care of your hands, — 
that ’s all the thanks 1 get. If your crop comes shorter 
into market than any of theirs, you won’t lose your bet, I 
suppose ? Tompkins won’t lord it over you, I suppose, — 
and you ’ll pay down your money like a lady, won’t you ? I 
think I see you doing it !” 

Legree, like many other planters, had but one form of 
ambition, — to have in the heaviest crop of the season, — 
and he had several bets on this very present season pend- 
ing in the next town. Cassy, therefore, with woman’s tact, 
touched the only string that could be made to vibrate. 

“Well, I ’ll let him off at what he ’s got,” said Legree; 
‘T)ut he shall beg my pardon, and promise better fashions.” 

Legree, though he talked so stoutly to Cassy, sallied 
forth from the house with a degree of misgiving. 

“Well, my boy,” said Legree, with a contemptuous kick, 
“how do you find yourself? Did n’t I tell yer I could larn 
yer a thing or two ? How do yer like it, — eh ? How did 
yer whaling agree with yer, Tom ? An’t quite so crank as 
ye was last night. Ye could n’t treat a poor sinner, now, 
to a bit of a sermon, could ye, — eh ?” 

Tom answered nothing. 

“Get up, you beast !” said Legree, kicking him again. 

This was a difficult matter for one so bruised and faint; 
17 


258 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


and, as Toin made efforts to do so, Legree laughed brutally. 

“What makes ye so spry, this morning, Tom? Cotched 
cold, maybe, last night.” 

Tom by this time had gained his feet, and was confront- 
ing his master with a stead}^ unmoved front. 

“The devil, you can !” said Legree, looking him over. “I 
believe you have n’t got enough yet. Now, Tom, get right 
down on yer knees and beg my pardon, for yer shines last 
night.” 

Tom did not move. 

“Down, you dog!” said Legree, striking him with his 
riding whip. 

“Mas’r Legree,” said Tom, “I can’t do it. I did only 
what I thought was right. I shall do just so again, if ever 
the time comes. I never will do a cruel thing, come what 
may.” 

“I 11 make ye give out, though, ’fore I ’ve done!” said 
Legree, in a rage. 

“I shall have help,” said Tom; “you ’ll never do it.” 

“Who the devil ’s going to help you?” said Legree, 
scornfully. 

“The Lord Almighty,” said Tom. 

“D — n you!” said Legree, as with one blow of his fist he 
felled Tom to the earth. 

“ITark, ye !” he said to Tom ; “T won’t deal with ye now, 
because the business is pressing, and I want all my hands; 
but I never forget. I ’ll score it against ye, and sometime 
I ’ll have my pay out o’ yer old black hide, — mind ye 1” 



“I’ll make ye give out, though. 


259 










260 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


CUAPTEIl XXXVII. 

LIBERTY. 

A while we must leave Tom in the hands of his 
persecutors, while we turn to pursue the fortunes 
of George and his wife, wliom we left in friendly 
hands, in a farmhouse on the roadside. 

We left Tom Loker groaning in a most immaculately 
clean Quaker bed, under the motherly supervision of Aunt 
Dorcas. 

“The devil!” said Tom Loker, giving a great throw to 
the bedclothes. 

“I must request thee, Thomas, not to use such lan- 
guage,” said Aunt Dorcas, as she quietly rearranged the 
bed. 

“Well, I won’t,* grann)'-, if I can help it,” said Tom. 
“That fellow and gal are here, I s’pose,” said he, sudden- 
ly, after a pause. 

“They are so,” said Dorcas. 

“They ’d better be off up to the lake,” said Tom; “the 
quicker the better.” 

“Probably they will do so,” said Aunt Dorcas. 

“And hark ye,” said Tom; “we ’ve got correspondents 
in Sandusky, that watch the boats for us. I don’t care if 


Life Among the Lowly. 


261 


I tell, now. I hope they will get away, just to spite Marks, 
— the cursed puppy! — ” 

“Thomas!” said Dorcas. 

“I tell you, granny, if you bottle a fellow up too tight, 
I shall split,” said Tom. “But about the gal, — tell ’em to 
dress her up some way, so ’s to alter her. Her description’s 
out in Sandusky.” 

“We will attend to that matter,” said Dorcas, with char- 
acteristic composure. 

After Tom Loker had lain three weeks in bed at the 
Quaker dwelling, he arose a somewhat sadder and wiser 
man; and, in place of slave catching, betook himself to 
life in one of the new settlements, where his talents devel- 
oped themselves more happily in trapping bears, wolves, 
and other inhabitants of the forest, in which he made him- 
self quite a name in the land. Tom always spoke rever- 
ently of the Quakers. “Nice people,” he would say; 
“'wanted to convert me, but could n’t come it, exactly. But, 
tell ye what, stranger, they do fix up a sick fellow first rate, 
no mistake. Make jist the tallest kind o’ broth and 
knicknacks.” 

As Tom had informed them that their party would be 
looked for in Sandusky, it was thought prudent to divide 
them. Jim, with his old mother, was forwarded separately; 
and a night or two after, George and Eliza, Avith their 
child, were driven privately into Sandusky, and lodged be- 
neath a hospitable roof, preparatory to taking their last 
passage on the lake. 

Before Eliza was arrayed in man’s attire, she shook down 
her silky abundance of black curly hair. “I say, George, 


262 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


it ’s almost a pit}', is n’t it,” she said, as she held up some 
of it, playfully, — “pity it ’s all got to come off?” 

George smiled sadly, and made no answer. 

Eliza turned to the glass, and the scissors glittered as 
one long lock after another was detached from her head. 

“There, now, that ’ll do,” she said, taking up a hair- 
brush; “now for a few fancy touches.” 

“There, W'on’t I make a 
pretty young fellow,” she 
said, turning to her hus- 
band, laughing and blush- 
ing at the same time. 

“You will always be 
pretty, do what you Avill,” 
said George. 

The door opened, and a 
respectable, middle-aged 
woman entered, leading 
little Harry, dressed in 
girl’s clothes. 

“What a pretty girl he 
makes,” said Eliza, turn- 
ing him round. “We call 
him Harriet, you see; 
— don’t the name come nicely ?” 

A hack now drove to the door, and the friendly family 
who had received the fugitives crowded around them with 
farewell greetings. 

The disguises the party had assumed were in accordance 
with the hints of Tom Loker. Mrs. Smyth, a respectable 



“Eliza turned to the glass.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


263 


woman from the settlement in Canada, whither they were 
fleeing, had consented to appear as the annt of little 
Harry; and, in order to attach him to her, he had been 
allowed to remain the two last days, under her sole charge ; 
and an extra amount of petting, joined to an indefinite 
amount of seedcakes and candy, had cemented a very close 
attachment on the part of the young gentleman. 

The hack drove to the wharf. The two young men, as 
they appeared, walked up the plank into the boat, Eliza 
gallantly giving her arm to Mrs. Smyth, and George at- 
tending to their baggage. 

George was standing at the captain’s office, settling for 
his party, when he overheard two men talking by his side. 

“I ’ve watched everyone that came on board,” said the 
clerk, ‘‘and I know they ’re not on this boat.” 

The speaker whom he addressed was our old friend 
Marks. 

“You would scarcely know the woman from a white 
woman,” said Marks. “The man is a very light mulatto; 
he has a brand in one of his hands.” 

The hand with which George was taking the tickets and 
change trembled a little; but he turned coolly around, 
fixed an unconcerned glance on the face of the speaker, and 
walked leisurely toward another part of the boat, where 
Eliza stood waiting for them. 

]\Irs. Smyth, with little Harry, sought the seclusion of 
the ladies’ cabin, where the dark beauty of the supposed 
little girl drew many flattering comments from the pas- 
sengers. 

George had the satisfaction, as the bell rang out its fare- 
well peal, to see Marks walk down the plank to the shore; 


264 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


and drew a long sigh of relief, when the boat had put a 
returnless distance between them. 

George and his wife stood arm in arm, as the boat neared 
the small town of Amherstberg, in Canada. His breath 
grew thick and short; a mist gathered before his eyes; he 
silently pressed the little hand that lay trembling on his 
arm. The bell rang; the boat stopped. Scarcely seeing 
what he did, he looked out his baggage, and gathered his 
little party. The little company were landed on the shore. 
They stood still till the boat had cleared; and then, with 
tears and embracings, the husband and wife, with their 
wondering child in their arms, knelt down and lifted up 
their hearts to God! 


Life Among the Lowly. 


265 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE VICTORY. 

L ong before his wounds were healed, Legree insisted 
that Tom should be put to the regular field work ; 
and then came day after day of pain and weari- 
ness, aggravated by every kind of injustice and indignity 
that the ill-will of a mean and malicious mind could 
devise. 

One evening, he was sitting, in utter dejection and pros- 
tration, by a few decaying brands, where his coarse supper 
was baking. He put a few bits of brushwood on the fire, 
and strove to raise the light, and then drew his worn Bible 
from his pocket, then heavily sighed and replaced it. A 
coarse laugh roused him; he looked up, — Legree was 
standing opposite to him. 

“Well, old bo}',” he said, “you find your religion don’t 
work, it seems ! I thought I should get that through your 
wool, at last! Come, Tom, don’t you think you ’d better 
be reasonable ! — heave that ar old pack of trash in the fire, 
and join my church !” 

“The Lord forbid 1” said Tom, fervently. 

“You see the Lord an’t going to help you; if he had 
been, He would n’t have let me get you ! This 5 ^er religion 
is all a mess of lying trumpery, Tom. I know all about it. 


260 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

Ye ’d better hold to me; I ’m somebody, and can do some- 
thing !” 

“No, Mas’r,” said Tom; “I ’ll hold on. The Lord may 
help me, or not help; but I ’ll hold to Him, and believe 
Him to the last!” 

“The more fool you 1” said Legree, spitting scornfully at 
him, and spurning him with his foot. “Never mind ; I ’ll 
chase you down, yet, and bring you under, — you ’ll see!” 
and Legree turned away. 

Tom sat, like one stunned, at the fire. Suddenly every- 
thing around him seemed to fade, and a vision rose before 
him of One crowned with thorns, buffeted and bleeding. 
Tom gazed, in awe and wonder, at the majestic patience of 
the face; the deep, pathetic eyes thrilled him to his ut- 
most heart; his soul woke, as, with floods of emotion, lie 
stretched out his hands and fell upon his knees, — when, 
gradually, the vision changed: the sharp thorns became 
rays of glory, and, in splendor inconceivable, he saw that 
same face bending compassionately towards him, and a 
voice said, “He that overcometh shall sit down with Me on 
My throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with 
My Father on His throne.” 

From this time, an inviolable sphere of peace encom- 
passed the lowly heart of the oppressed one. All noticed 
the change in his appearance. Cheerfulness and alertness 
seemed to return to him, and a quietness which no insult 
or injury could ruffle seemed to possess him. 

One night, after all in Tom’s cabin were sunk in sleep, 
he was suddenly aroused by seeing Cassy’s face at the hole 
between the logs, that served for a window. She made a 
silent gesture for him to come out. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


267 


Tom came out the door. It was between one and two 
o’clock at night, — broad, calm, still moonlight. Tom re- 
marked, as the light of the moon fell upon Cassy’s large. 



“Then I shall do it.”' 

black eyes, that there was a wild and peculiar glare in 
them, unlike their wonted fixed despair. 

“Come here. Father Tom,” she said, laying her small 



268 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


hand on his wrist, and drawing him forward with a force 
as if the hand were of steel; “come here, — I ’ve news for 
you.” 

“What, Misse Gassy?” said Tom, anxiously. 

“Tom, would n’t you like your liberty ?” 

“I shall have it, Misse, in God’s time,” said Tom. 

“Ay, but you may have it to-night,” said Gassy, with a 
flash of sudden energy. “Gome on.” 

Tom hesitated. 

“Come !” said she, in a whisper, fixing her black eyes on 
him. “Come along! He ’s asleep — sound. I put enough 
into his brandy to keep him so. I wish I ’d had more, — I 
should n’t have wanted you. But come, the back door is 
unlocked; there ’s an axe there, I put it there, — his room 
door is open ; I ’ll show you the way. I ’d a done it myself, 
only my arms are so weak. Come along!” 

“Not for ten thousand worlds, Misse !” said Tom, firmly, 
stopping and holding her back, as she was pressing 
forward. 

“But think of all these poor creatures,” said Gassy. “We 
might set them all free, and go somewhere in the swamps, 
and find an island, and live by ourselves; I ’ve heard of its 
being done. Any life is better than this.” 

“No!” said Tom, firmly. “No! good never comes of 
wickedness. I ’d sooner chop my right hand off !” 

“Then I shall do it,” said Gassy, turning. 

“Poor soul !” said Tom, compassionately. “Satan desires 
to have ye, and sift ye as wheat. I pray the Lord for ye. 
0! Misse Gassy, turn to the dear Lord Jesus. He came to 
bind up the broken-hearted, and comfort all that mourn,” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


369 


Gassy stood silent, while large, heavy tears dropped from 
her downcast eyes. 

*‘Misse Gassy,” said Tom, in a hesitating tone, after sur- 
veying her a moment in silence, “if ye only could get away 
from here, — if the thing was possible, — I ’d ’vise ye and 
Emmeline to do it; that is, if ye could go without blood- 
guiltiness, — not otherwise.” 

“Would you try it with us. Father Tom?” 

“No,” said Tom; “time was when I would; but the 
Lord ’s given me a work among these yer poor souls, and 
I ’ll stay with ’em and bear my cross with ’em till the end. 
It ’s different with you; it ’s a snare to you, — it ’s more ’n 
you can stand, — and you ’d better go, if yon can.” 

“Father Tom, I ’ll try it!” she said suddenly. 

“Amen!” said Tom, “the Lord help ye!” 


GHAPTEK XXXIX. 

THE STRATAGEM. 

T he sleeping room of Gassy was directly under the 
garret. One day, without consulting Legree, she 
suddenly took it upon her to change all the furni- 
ture of the room to one at some considerable distance. 
The under-servants, who were helping her,- were running 


370 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


and bustling about with great zeal and confusion, when 
Legree returned from a ride. 

“Hallo! you Cass!” said Legree, “what ’s in the wind 
now ?” 

“jS’othing; only I choose to have another room,” said 
Cassy, doggedly. 

“And what for, pray?” said Legree. 

“I ’d like to get some sleep, now and then.” 

“Sleep! well, what hinders your sleeping?” 

“I could tell, I suppose, if you want to hear,” said Cassy, 
dryly. 

“Speak out, you minx !” said Legree. 

“0 ! nothing. I suppose it would n’t disturb you ! Only 
groans, and people scufflling, and rolling round on the 
garret floor, half the night, from twelve to morning!” 

“People up garret !” said Legree, uneasily, but forcing a 
laugh ; “who are they, Cassy ?” 

Cassy raised her sharp, black eyes, and looked in the 
face of Legree, with an expression that went through his 
bones, as she said, “To be sure, Simon, who are they? I ’d 
like to have you tell me. You don’t know, I suppose!” 

With an oath, Ijegree struck at her Avith his riding whip ; 
but she glided to one side, and passed through the door, 
and looking back, said, “If you ’ll sleep in that room, you’ll 
know all about it. Perhaps you ’d better try it !” and then 
immediately shut and locked the door. 

Legree blustered and swore, and threatened to break 
doAvn the door; but apparently thought better of it, and 
walked uneasily into the sitting-room. Cassy perceived 
(hat her shaft had struck home; and, from that hour, with 


Life Among the Lowly. 


271 


the most exquisite address, she never ceased to continue 
the train of influences she had begun. 

In a knothole in the garret she had inserted the neck of 
an old bottle, in such a manner that when there was the 
least wind, most doleful and lugubrious wailing sounds 
proceeded from it, which, in a high wind, increased to a 
perfect shriek, such as to credulous and superstitious ears 
might easily seem to be that of horror and despair. 

These sounds were, from time to time, heard by the 
servants, and revived in full force the memory of the old 
ghost legend. A superstitious creeping horror seemed to 
fill the house; and though no one dared to breathe it to 
Legree, he found himself encompassed by it, as by an 
atmosphere. 

A night or two after this, Legree was sitting in the old 
sitting-room, by the side of a flickering wood fire, that 
threw uncertain glances round the room. It was a stormy, 
windy night, such as raises whole squadrons of nondescript 
noises in rickety old houses. Windows were rattling, shut- 
ters flapping, the wind carousing, rumbling, and tumbling 
down the chimney, and, every once in a while, puffing out 
smoke and ashes, as if a legion of spirits were coming after 
them. Legree liad been casting up accounts and reading 
newspapers for some hours, while Gassy sat in the corner, 
sullenly looking into the fire. Legree laid down his paper, 
and seeing an old book lying on the table, which he had 
noticed Gassy reading, the first part of the evening, took it 
up, and began to turn it over. ’ It was one of those collec- 
tions of stories of bloody murders, ghostly legends, and 
supernatural visitations, which, coarsely got up and illus- 


272 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; ot 

trated, have a strange fascination for one who once begins 
to read them. 

Legree poohed and pished, but finally, after reading 
some way, he threw down the book, with an oath. 

‘‘You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Cass?” said he. 

“No matter what I believe,” said Cassy, sullenly. 

“Them noises was nothing but rats and the wind,” said 
Legree. “Lord’s sake ! ye can make anything out o’ wind.” 

Cassy knew Legree was uneasy under her eyes, and, 
therefore, she made no answer, but sat fixing them on him, 
with that strange, unearthly expression, as before. 

“Come, speak out, woman, — don’t you think so?” said 
Legree. 

“Can rats walk down stairs, and come walking through 
the entry, and open a door when you ’ve locked it and set 
a chair against it?” said Cassy; “and come walk, walk, 
walking right up to your bed, and put out their hand, so ?” 

Cassy kept her glittering eyes fixed on Tjegree, as she 
spoke, and he stared at her like a man in the nightmare, 
till, when she finished by laying her hand, icy cold, on his, 
he sprung back, with an oath. 

“Woman, what do you mean? Nobody did?” — 

“0, no, — :of course not, — did I say they did?” said Cassy. 

T.egree stamped his foot, and swore violently. 

“Don’t swear,” said Cassy; “nobody knows who may be 
hearing you. Hark! What was that!” 

“What?” said Legree, starting. 

A heavy old Dutch clock, that stood in the corner of the 
room, began, and slowly struck twelve. 

For some reason or other, Legree neither spoke nor 
moved; a vague horror fell on him; while Cassy, with a 








274 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


keen, sneering glitter in her eyes, stood looking at him, 
counting the strokes. 

“Twelve o’clock; w'^ell, now we ’ll see,” said she, turning, 
and opening the door into the passageway. 

“Simon, come here,” said Gassy, in a whisper, laying 
her hand on his, and leading him to the foot of the stairs ; 
“do you know what that is ? Hark !” 

A wild shriek came pealing down the stairway. It came 
from the garret. Legree’s knees knocked together; his 
face grew white with fear. 

“Had n’t you better get your pistols ?” said Gassy, with 
a sneer that froze Legree’s blood. “It ’s time this thing 
Avas looked into, you know. I ’d like to have you go up 
now; they ’re at it.” 

“I won’t go !” said Ijegree, with an oath. 

“Why not? There an’t any such thing as ghosts, you 
know ! Come !” and Gassy flitted up the winding stairway, 
laughing, and looking back after him. “Come on.” 

“I believe you are the devil !” said Legree. “Come back, 
you hag, — come back, Cass ! You shan’t go !” 

But Gassy laughed AvildH, and fled on. He heard her 
open the entry doors that led to the garret. A Avild gust 
of Avind SAvept doAvn, extinguishing the candle he held in 
his hand, and Avith it the fearful, unearthly screams; they 
seemed to be shrieked in his very ear. 

Legree fled frantically into the parlor, Avhither, in a fcAV 
moments, he AA'as folloAvcd by Gassy, pale, calm, cold as an 
avenging spirit, and Avith that same fearful light in her 
eye. 

“I hope you are satisfied,” said she, 

“Blast you, Cass!” said Legree.* 


Life Among the Lowly. 


275 


^‘What for ?” said Gassy. “I only went np and shut the 
doors. What ’s the matter with that garret, Simon, do you 
suppose?’' said she. 

‘‘None of your business !” said Legree. 

“0, it an’t? Well,” said Gassy, “at any rate, I’m glad 
1 don’t sleep under it.” 

Anticipating the rising of the wind, that very evening. 
Gassy had been up and opened the garret window. Gf 
course, the moment the doors were opened, the wind had 
drafted down, and extinguished the light. 

This may serve as a specimen of the game that Gassy 
played with Legree, until he would sooner have put his 
head into a lion’s mouth than to have explored that garret. 
Meanwhile, Gassy slowly and carefully accumulated there 
a stock of provisions sufficient to afford subsistence for 
some time; and transferred a greater part of her own and 
Emmeline’s wardrobe. All things being arranged, they 
only waited a fitting opportunity to put their plan in 
execution. 

When the time arrived. Gassy and Emmeline were in the 
room of the latter, busy in sorting and arranging two 
small bundles. 

“There, these will be large enough,” said Gassy. “Now 
put on your bonnet, and let’s start; it’s just about the 
right time.” 

“Why, they can see us yet,” said Emmeline. 

“I mean they shall,” said Gassy, coolly. “Don’t you 
know that they must have their chase after us, at any rate ? 
The way of the thing is to be just this: — We will steal out 
of the back door, and run down by the quarters. Sambo 
or Quimbo will be sure to see us. They will give chase, 


276 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


and we will get into the swamp; then, they can’t follow us 
any further till they go up and give the alarm, and turn 
out the dogs, and so on; and, while they are blundering 
round, and tumbling over each other, as they always d(^, 
you and I will just slip along to the creek, that runs back 
of the house, and wade along in it, till we get opposite the 
back door. That will put the dogs all at fault; for scent 
won’t lie in the water. Every one will run out of the house 
to look after us, and then we ’ll whip in at the back door, 
and up into the garret, where I ’ve got a nice bed made up 
in one of tlie great boxes. We must stay in that garret a 
good while; for, I tell you, he will raise heaven and earth 
after us. He ’ll muster some of those old overseers on the 
other plantations, and have a great hunt; and they’ll go 
over every inch of ground in that swamp. He makes it 
his boast that nobody ever got away from him. So let 
him hunt at his leisure.” 

The two fugitives glided noiselessly from the house, and 
flitted, through the gathering shadows of evening, along 
by the quarters. As Cassy expected, when quite clear 
the verge of the swamps that encircled the plantation, 
they heard a voice calling to them to stop. It was not 
Sambo, however, but Legree, who was pursuing them with 
violent execrations. At the sound, the feebler spirit of 
Emmeline gave way; and, laying hold of Cassy’s arm, she 
said, “0, Cassy, I ’m going to faint !” 

‘Tf you do, I ’ll kill you,” said Cassy, drawing a small, 
glittering stiletto, and flashing it before the eyes of 
the girl. 

The diversion accomplished the purpose. Emmeline 
did not faint, and succeeded in plunging, with Cassy, into 


Life Among the Lowly. 


277 


a part of the labyrinth of swamp, so deep and dark that it 
was perfectly hopeless for Legree to think of following 
them, without assistance. 

“Well,” said he, chuckling brutally; “at any rate, 
they’ve got themselves into a trap now — the baggages! 
They ’re safe enough. They shall sweat for it 1” 

“Hulloa, there! Sambo! Quimbo! All hands!” called Le- 
gree, coming to the quarters, when the men and women 
was just returning from 
work. “There ’s two run- 
aways in tbe swamps. I ’ll 
give five dollars to any nig- 
ger as catches ’em. Turn 
out the dogs! Turn out 
Tiger, and Fury, and the 
rest !” 

“Mas’r, shall we shoot 
’em, if we can’t cotch 
’em?” said Sambo, to 
whom his master brought 
out a rifle. 

“You may fire on Cass, 
if you like; but the gal, not,” said Legree. “And now, 
boys, be spry and smart. Five dollars for him that 
gets ’em; and a glass of spirits to every one of you, 
anyhow.” 

The whole band, with the glare of blazing torches, and 
whoop, and shout, and savage yell, of man and beast, pro- 
ceeded down to the swamp, followed, at some distance, by 
every servant in the house. The establishment was, of a 



278 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


consequence, wholly deserted, when Cassy and Emmeline 
glided into it the back way. 

‘‘See there!” said Emmeline, pointing to Cassy; “the 
hunt is begun ! Look how those lights dance about 1 Hark ! 
the dogs! Don’t you hear? If we were only there, our 
chance wouldn’t be worth a picayune. 0, for pity’s sake, 
do let ’s hide ourselves. Quick !” 

“There ’s no occasion for hurry,” said Cassy, coolly ; 
“they are all out after the hunt, — that ’s the amusement 
of the evening! We’ll go upstairs, by and by. -Mean- 
Avhile,” said she, deliberately taking a key from the pocket 
of a coat that Degree had thrown down in his hurry, 
“meanwhile I shall take something to pay our passage.” 

She unlocked the desk, took from it a roll of bills, which 
she counted over rapidly. 

“0, don’t let ’s do that !” said Emmeline. 

“Don’t!” said Cassy; “why not? Would you have us 
starve in the swamps, or have that that will pay our way 
to the free States? Money will do anything, girl.” And 
as she spoke, she put the money in her bosom. 

“It would be stealing,” said Emmeline, in a distressed 
whisper. 

“Stealing!” said Cassy, with a scornful laugh. “They 
who steal body and soul need n’t talk to us. Every one of 
these bills is stolen, — stolen from poor, starving, sw^eating 
creatures, who must go to the devil at last, for his profit. 
Let him talk about stealing ! But come, we may as well go 
up garret; I ’ve got a stock of candles there, and some 
books to pass away the time. You may be pretty sure they 
won’t come there to inquire after us. If they do, I ’ll play 
ghost for them.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


279 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE MARTYR. 

T he escape of Gassy and Emmeline irritated the be- 
fore surly temper of Legree to the last degree ; and 
his fury, as was to be expected, fell upon the de- 
fenceless head of Tom. Had not this man braved him, — 
steadily, powerfully, resistlessly, — ever since he bought 
him ? 

‘H hate him !” said Legree, that night, as he sat up in his 
bed; H hate him! And is n’t he mine? Can’t I do what I 
like with him? Who ’s to hinder, I wonder?” And Legree 
clenched his fist, and shook it, as if he had something in 
his hands that he could rend in pieces. 

The next morning, he determined to say nothing, as yet; 
to assemble a party, from some neighboring plantations, 
with dogs and guns; to surround the swamp, and go about 
the hunt systematically. If it succeeded, well and good; 
if not he would summon Tom before him, and — his teeth 
clenched and his blood boiled — then he would break that 

fellow down, or there was a dire inward whisper, to 

which his soul assented. 

The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, hut unsuc- 
cessful; and, with grave, ironic exultation. Gassy looked 


380 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

down on Legree, as, weary and dispirited, be alighted from 
his horse. 

“Now, Quimbo,” said Legree, as he stretched himself 
down in the sitting room, “you jest go and walk that Tom 
up here, right away! The old cuss is at the bottom of this 
yer whole matter; and 1 ’ll have it out of his old black hide, 
or I ’ll know the reason why !” 

Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart ; for he 
knew all the plan of the fugitives’ escape, and the place of 
their present concealment; — he knew the deadly character 
of the man he had to deal with, and his despotic power. 
But he felt strong in God to meet death, rather than be- 
tray the helpless. 

He sat his basket down by the row, and, looking up, 
said, “Into thy hands I commend my spirit! Thou hast 
redeemed me, oh Lord God of truth!” and then quietly 
yielded himself to the rough, brutal grasp with which 
Quimbo seized him. 

“Ay, ay!” said the giant, as he dragged him along; 
“ye’ll cotch it, now! T ’ll boun’ Mas’r’s back’s up high! 
N o sneaking out, now ! Tell ye, ye ’ll get it, and no mis- 
take ! See how you ’ll look, now, helpin’ Mas’r’s niggers to 
run away ! See what ye ’ll get !” 

“Well, Tom!” said Legree, walking up, and seizing him 
grimly by the collar of his coat, and speaking through his 
teeth, in a paroxysm of determined rage, “do you know 
I ’ve made up my mind to kill you?” 

“It ’s very likely, Mas’r,” said Tom, calmly. 

“I have,” said Legree, with grim, terrible calmness, 
“done — just — that — thing, Tom, unless you’ll tell me 
what you know about these yer gals !” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


281 


Tom stood silent. 

“D’ ye hear?” said Legree, stamping, with a roar like 
that of an incensed lion. ^‘Speak!” 

‘T han’t got nothing to tell Mas’r,” said Tom, with a 
slow, firm, deliberate utterance. 

“Do you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don’t 
know ?” said Legree. 

Tom was silent. 

“Speak !” thundered Legree, striking him furiously. “Do 
you know anything?” 

“I know, Mas’r ; but 1 can’t tell anything. I can die !” 

Legree drew in a long breath ; and, suppressing his rage, 
took Tom by the arm, and, approaching his face almost to 
his, said, in a terrible voice, “Hark ’e, Tom ! — ye think, 
’cause I ’ve let you off before, I don’t mean what I say ; 
but, this time, I ’ve made up my mind, and counted the 
cost. You ’ve always stood it out agin’ me: now, I ’ll con- 
quer ye, or kill ye ! — one or t’ other. I ’ll count every drop 
of blood there is in you, and take ’em, one by one, till ye 
give up !” 

Tom looked up to his master, and answered, “Mas’r, if 
you was sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, 
I ’d give ye my heart’s blood ; and, if taking every drop of 
blood in this poor old body would save your precious soul, 
I ’d give ’em freely, as the Lord gave his for me. 0, Mas’r ! 
don’t bring this great sin on your soul ! It will hurt you 
more than ’t will me! Do the worst you can, my troubles 
’ll be over soon; but, if ye don’t repent, yours won’l 
never end.” 

Legree stood aghast and looked at Tom. 

There was a moment’s pause. It was but a moment. 


282 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


One hesitating pause, — one irresolute, relenting thrill, — 
and the spirit of evil came back, with seven-fold vehe- 
mence; and Legree, foaming with rage, smote his victim 
to the ground. 

Was he alone, that long night, whose brave, loving spirit 
was bearing up, in that old shed, against buffeting and 

brutal stripes? 

Nay! There stood by 
him One, — seen by him 
alone, — ‘dike unto the 
Son of God.” 

“He is most gone, 
Mas’r,” said Sambo, touch- 
ed, in spite of himself, by 
the patience of his victim. 

“Pay away, till he gives 
up! Give it to him! — give 
it to him!” shouted Le- 
gree. “1 11 take every drop 
of blood he has, unless he 
confesses !” 

Tom opened his eyes, 
and looked upon his master, “Ye poor miserable critter!” 
he said, “there an’t no more ye can do! I for- 
give ye, with all my soul !” and he fainted entirely 
away. 

“I b’lieve, my soul, he’s done for, finally,” said Legree, 
stepping forward, to look at him. “Yes, he is! Well, his 
mouth’s shut up, at last, — that’s one comfort!” 

Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and 



“Give It to him.” 


Life Among the Lowly. 


283 


pious prayers had struck upon the hearts of the imbrutc'd 
blacks, who had been the instruments of cruelty upon 
him; and, the instant Legree withdrew, they took him 



“We’s been awful wicked to ye.” 


do\t'n, and, in their ignorance, sought to call him back to 
life, — as if that were any favor to him. 

‘‘Sartin, we’s been doin’ a drefful wicked thing!” said 
Sambo; “hopes Mas’r’ll have to ’count for it, and not we.” 
They washed his wounds, — they provided a rude bed. 



284 


Uncle Toni’s Cabin;- or 


of some refuse cotton, for him to lie down on; and one 
of them, stealing up to the house, begged a drink of brandy 
of Legree, pretending that he was tired, and wanted it 
for himself. He brought it back, and poured it down 
Tom’s throat. 

‘‘0, Tom!” said Quimbo, ‘Ve’s been awful wicked to 
ye!” 

‘T forgive ye, with all my heart!” said Tom, faintly. 

‘‘0, Tom! do tell us who is Jesus, anyhow?” said Sambo; 
■ — “Jesus, that’s been a standin’ by you so, all this night! 
—Who is He?” 

The words roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured 
forth a few energetic sentences of that wondrous One, — 
His life. His death. His everlasting presence, and power 
to save. 

They wept, — ^both the two savage men. 

“Why didn’t I never hear this before?” said Sambo, 
‘T)ut I do believe! — T can’t help it; Lord Jesus, have 
mercy on us!” 

“Poor critters!” said Tom, “I’d he willing to bar all 
I have, if it’ll only bring ye to Christ! 0, Lord! give me 
these two more souls, T pray!” 

That prayer was answered! 


Life Among the Lowly. 


^85 


CHAPTEE XLI. 


THE YOUNG MASTER. 


T he letter of Miss Ophelia to Mrs. Shelby had, by 
some unfortunate accident, been detained, for a 
month or two, at some remote postoffice before it 
reached its destination; and, of course, before it was re- 
ceived, Tom was already lost to view among the distant 
swamps of the Eed Kiver. 

Mrs. Shelby was deeply grieved, but she was then in at- 
tendance on the sick-bed of her husband. A little later 
he died, and then the large amount of business thrown 
upon her delayed the matter for a while. Then she re- 
ceived a letter from the lawyer to whom Miss Ophelia had 
referred her, saying that he knew nothing of the matter, 
that Tom was sold at a public auction, and that, beyond 
receiving the money, he knew nothing of the affair. 

Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this 
result, and, accordingly, some six months after, the latter, 
who had grown from a boy to a tall young man, having 
business for his mother, down the river, visited New 
Orleans in hopes of discovering Tom’s whereabouts, and 
restoring him. 

After some months of unsuccessful search, by the merest 
accident, George fell in with a man, in New Orleans, who 

K 


286 


Uncle Toni’s Cabin; or 


happened to be possessed of the desired information; and 
with his money in his pocket, onr hero took steamboat 
for Red River, resolving to find out and re-pnrehase his 
old friend. 

He was soon introduced into the house, where he found 
Legree in the sitting room. 

Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospi- 
tality. 

“I understand,” said the young man, ‘That you bought, 
in New Orleans, a boy, named Tom. He used to be on 
my father’s place and I came to see if I couldn’t buy him 
back.” 

Legree’s brow grew dark, and he broke out passion- 
ately: “Yes, I did buy such a fellow, — and a great 
bargain I had of it, too! The most rebellious, saucy, im- 
pudent dog! Set up my niggers to run away, got off two 
gals, worth eight hundred or a thousand dollars apiece. 
He owned to that, and when I bid him tell me where they 
was, he up and said he knew, but he wouldn’t tell, and 
stood to it, though T gave him the cussedest flogging T 
ever gave nigger yet. I b’lieve he’s trying to die; but I 
don’t know as he’ll make it out.” 

“Where is he ?” said George, impetuously. “Let me see 
him.” 

“He ’s in dat ar shed,” said a little fellow, who stood 
liolding George’s horse. 

Legree kicked the boy, and swore at him; but George, 
without saying another word, turned and strode to the 
spot. 

Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night ; not 


Life Among the Lowly. 287 

suffering, for every nerve of suffering was blunted and 
destroyed. 

Cassy, who had glided out of her place of concealment, 
and, by over-hearing, learned the sacrifice that had been 
made for her and Emmeline, had been there, the night 
before, defying the danger of detection; and, moved by the 
few last words which the affectionate soul had yet strength 
to breathe, the dark, despairing woman had wept and 
prayed. 

When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy 
and his heart sick. 

“Is it possible, — is it possible?” said he, kneeling down 
by him. “Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend!” 

Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the 
dying. He moved his head gently, smiled, and said: 

“Jesus can make a dying bed 

Feel soft as downy pillows are.” 

Tears which did honor to his manly heart fell from the 
jmung man’s eyes, as he bent over his poor friend. 

“0, dear Uncle Tom! do wake, — do speak once more! 
Look up! Here’s IMas’r George, — your own little Mas’r 
George. Don’t you know me?” 

“jVIas’r George!” said Tom., opening his eyes, and speak- 
ing in a feeble voice; “]\[as’r George!” He looked be- 
wildered. 

Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul ; and the vacant 
eye became fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted 
up, the hard hands clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks. 

“Bless the Lord! it is, — it is, — it’s all T wanted! They 


288 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


haven’t forgot me. It warms my soul; it does my old 
heart good! Now I shall die content! Bless the Lord, 
oh my soul!” 

“You shan’t die ! you mustn’t die, nor think of it ! I’ve 
come to buy you, and take you home,” said George, with 
impetuous vehemence. 

“0, Mas’r George, ye’re too late. The Lord’s bought 
me, and is going to take me home, — and I long to go. 
Heaven is better than Kentuck.” 

“0, don’t die! It’ll kill me!— it’ll break my heart to 
think what you’ve suffered, — and lying in this old shed, 
here! Poor, poor fellow!” 

“Don’t call me poor fellow!” said Tom, solemnly. ^T 
have been poor fellow; but that’s all past and gone, now. 
I ’m right in the door, going into glory ! 0, Mas’r George ! 
Heaven has come! I’ve got the victory! — the Lord Jesus 
has given it to me ! Glory be to His name !” 

George was awe-struck at the force, the vehemence, the 
power, with which these broken sentences were uttered. 
He sat gazing in silence. 

Tom grasped his hand, and continued, — “Ye mustn’t, 
now, tell Chloe, poor soul! how ye found me; — ’twould 
be so drefful to her. Only tell her ye found me going into 
glory; and that I couldn’t stay for no one. And tell her 
the Lord’s stood by me everywhere and al’ays, nud made 
everything light and easy. And oh, the poor chil’cn, and 
the baby! — my old heart’s been most broke for ’em, time 
and agin! Tell ’em all to follow me — follow me! Give 
my love to Mas’r, and dear good Missis, and everybody in 
the place! Ye don’t know! ’Pears like I loves ’em all! 



19 


“O, Mas’r George, ye’re too late.” 


289 


890 


TTncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


1 loves every creatur’, every wliar! — it’s nothing but love! 
0, ]\Ias’r George ! what a thing ’t is to be a Christian 1” 

At this moment, Legree sauntered up to the door of 
the shed, looked in, with a dogged air of affected careless- 
ness, and turned awa}'. 

At this moment, the sudden flush of strength which the 
joy of meeting his young master had infused into the 
dying man gave way. A sudden sinking fell upon him; 
he closed his eyes ; and that mysterious and sublime change 
passed over his face, that told the approach of other 
worlds. 

He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspira- 
tions; and his broad chest rose and fell, heavily. The ex- 
pression of his face was that of a conqueror. 

“Who, — who, — who shall separate us from the love of 
Christ?” he said, in a voice that contended with mortal 
weakness; and, with a smile, he fell asleep. 

George sat fixed with solemn awe. It seemed to him 
that the place was holy; and, as he closed tlie lifeless eyes, 
and rose up from the dead, only one thought possessed 
him, — that expressed by his simple old friend, — “What 
a thing it is to be a Christian !” 

He turned: Legree was stanrlinir, sullenly, behind him. 

Fixing his keen dark eyes on Legree, he simply said, 
pointing to the dead, “You have got all you ever can of 
him. What shall I pay you for the body? I will take it 
away, and bury it decently.” 

“1 don’t sell dead niggers,” said Legree, doggedly. 
“You are welcome to bury him where and when you like?’ 

“Hoys,” said George, to two or three negroes, who were 


Life Among the Lowly. 


291 


looking at the body, “help me lift him up, and carry him 
to my wagon; and get me a spade.” 

One of them ran for a spade; the other two assisted 
George to carry the body to the wagon. 

George spread his cloak in the wagon, and had the body 
carefully disposed of in it, then he turned, fixed his eyes 
on Legree, and said, with forced composure, 

“I have not, as yet, said to you what I think of this most 
atrocious affair; — this is not the time and place. But, 
sir, this innocent blood shall have justice. I will proclaim 
this murder. I will go to the very first magistrate, and 
expose you.” 

“Do!” said Legree, snapping his fingers, scornfully. 
“I’d like to see you doing it. Where you going to get 
witnesses ? — ho\V you going to prove it ? — Come, now !” 

George saw, at once, the force of this defiance. There 
was not a white person on the place; and, in all southern 
courts, the testimony of colored blood is nothing. He 
felt, at that moment, as if he could have rent the heavens 
with his heart’s indignant cry for justice; but in vain. 

“After all, what a fuss, for a dead nigger!” said Legree. 

The word was as a spark to a powder magazine. Pru- 
dence was never a cardinal virtue of the Kentucky boy. 
George turned, and, with one indignant blow, knocked 
Legree flat upon his face. 

Beyond the boundaries of the plantation, George had 
noticed a dry, sandy knoll, shaded by a few trees: there 
they made a grave. 

“Shall we take off the cloak, Mas’r?” said the negroes, 
when the grave was ready. 


292 


Uncle Toni’s Cabin; or 


“No, no, — ^bury it with him! It’s all I can give you, 
now, poor Tom, and you shall have it.” 

They laid him in; and the men shovelled away, silently. 
They banked it up, and laid green turf over it. 

“You may go, boys,” said George, slipping a quarter 
into the hand of each. They lingered about, however. 

“If young Mas’r would 
please buy us — ” said one. 

“We ’d serve him so 
faithful!” said the other. 

“Hard times here, 
]\[as’r!” said the first. 
“Do, Mas’r, buy us, 
please!” 

“I can’t! — I can’t!” said 
George, with difficulty 
motioning them off ; it ’s 
impossible !” 

The poor fellows looked 
dejected, and walked ojff in 
silence. 

“Witness, eternal God!” 
said George, kneeling on 
the grave of his poorfriend; 
“oh, witness, that from this 
hour, I will do what one man can to drive out this curse 
of slavery from my land !” 

There is no monument to mark the last resting place of 
our friend. lie needs none! His Lord knows where he 
lies, and will raise him up, immortal, to appear with him 
when he shall appear in his glory. 



Life Among the Lowly. 


293 


CHAPTER XLII. 

AN AUTHENTIC GHOST STORY. 

T he night after Tom^s body had been carried away, 
Legree rode to the next town for a carouse, and 
had a high one. Got home late and tired ; locked 
his door, took out the key, and went to bed. He slept 
soundly, but finally, there came over his sleep a shadow, a 
horror, an apprehension of something dreadful hanging 
over him. It was his mother’s shroud, he thought; but 
Gassy had it, holding it up, and showing it to him. He 
heard a confused noise of screams and groanings; and, 
with it all, he knew he was asleep, and he struggled to 
wake himself. He was half awake. He was sure some- 
thing was coming into his room. He knew the door was 
opening, but he could not stir hand or foot. At last he 
turned, with a start; the door was open, and he saw a hand 
putting out his light. 

It was a cloudy, misty moonlight, and there he saw it ! — 
something white gliding in ! He heard the still rustle of 
its ghostly garments. It stood still by his bed; — a cold 
hand touched his; a voice said, three times, in a low, fear- 
ful whisper, “Come! come! come!” And, while he lay 
sweating with terror, he knew not when or how the thing 
was gone. He sprang out of bed, and pulled at the door. 


:;204 Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 

It was shut and locked, and the man fell down in a 
swoon. 

After tliis, Legree became a harder drinker than ever 
before. He no longer drank cautiously, prudently, but 
imprudently and recklessly. 

By a singular coincidence, on the very night that this 
vision appeared to Legree, the house-door was found open 
in the morning, and some of the negroes had seen two 
white figures gliding down the avenue towards the high- 
road. 

It was near sunrise when Gassy and Emmeline paused, 
for a moment, in a little knot of trees near the town. 

Gassy was dressed after tlie manner of the Creole Span- 
ish ladies, — wholly in black. A small black bonnet on her 
head, covered by a veil thick with embroidery, concealed 
her face. It had been agreed that, in their escape, she 
was to personate the character of a Creole lady, and Em- 
meline that of her servant. 

Brought up, from early life, in connection with the 
highest society, the language, movements and air of Cassy, 
were all in agreement with this idea; and she had still 
enough remaining with her, of a once splendid wardrobe, 
and sets of jewels, to enable her to personate the thing to 
advantage. 

She stopped in the outskirts of the town, where she 
had noticed trunks for sale, and purchased a handsome 
one. This she requested the man to send along with her. 
And, accordingly, thus escorted by a boy wheeling her 
trunk, and Emmeline behind her, carrying her carpet- 
bag and sundry bundles, she made her appearance at the 
small tavern, like a lady of consideration. 


Life Among the Lowly. 295 

The first person that struck her, after her arrival, was 
George Shelby, who was staying there, awaiting the next 
boat. 

Towards evening, a boat arrived, and George handed 
Gassy aboard, with the politeness of a Kentuckian, and 



“It stood still by his bed.” 


exerted himself to provide her with a good state-room. 

Gassy kept her room and bed, on pretext of illness, dur- 
ing the whole time they were on Red River; and was 
waited on, with obsequious devotion, by her attendant. 
When they arrived at the Mississippi river, George, 



296 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


having learned that the course of the strange lady was 
upward, like his own, proposed to take a state-room for 
her on the same boat with himself, and the whole party 
was transferred to the good steamer Cincinnati. 

From the moment that George got the first glimpse of 
her face, he was troubled with one of those fleeting and 
indefinite likenesses, which almost everybody can remem- 
ber, and has been, at times perplexed with. He could not 
keep himself from looking at her, and watching her per- 
petually. 

Cassy became uneasy, and finally resolved to throw her- 
self entirely on his generosity, and intrusted him with her 
whole history. 

George was heartily disposed to sympathize with her, 
and assured her that he would do all in his power to 
protect her. 

The next state-room to Cassy’s was occupied by a French 
lady, named De Thoux, who was accompanied by a fine 
little daughter, a child of some twelve summers. 

One day, hearing that George was from Kentucky, she 
asked him if he knew a man by the name of Harris. 

‘‘There is an old fellow, of that name, lives not far from 
my father’s place,” said George. 

“Did you ever know’ of his having a mulatto boy, named 
George ?” 

“0, certainl)'-, — George Harris, — I know him well; he 
married a servant of my mother’s, but has escaped, now, 
to Canada.” 

“He has?” said Madame de Thoux, quickly. “Thauk 
God !” 

George looked a surprised inquiry, but said nothing. 


Life Among the Lowly. 297 

Madame de Thoux leaned her head on her hand, and 
burst into tears. 

“He is my brother/’ she said. 

“Madame!” said George, with a strong accent of sur- 
prise. 

“Yes,” said Madame de Thoux, lifting her head, proudly, 
and wiping her tears; “Mr. Shelby, George Harris is my 
brother !” 

“I am perfectly astonished,” said George. 

“I was sold to the South when he was a boy,” said she. 
“I was bought by a good and generous man. He took mo 
with him to the West Indies, set me free, and married me. 
It is but lately that he died; and I was coming up to 
Kentucky, to see if I could find and redeem my brother.” 

“I have heard him speak of a sister Emily, that was sold 
South,” said George. 

“Yes, indeed! I am the one,” said Madame de,Thoux; — 
“tell me what sort of a ” 

“A very fine young man,” said George, “notwithstand- 
ing the curse of slavery that lay on him. He sustained 
a first rate character, both for intelligence and principle. 
I know, you see,” he said; “because he married in our 
family.” 

“What sort of a girl ?” said Madame de Thoux, eagerly. 

“A treasure,” said George; “a beautiful, intelligent, 
amiable girl. Very pious. My mother had brought her 
up, and trained her as carefully, almost, as a daughter. 
She could read and write, embroider and sew, beautifully; 
and was a beautiful singer.” 

• “Was she born in your house?” said Madame de Thoux. 

“Ko. Father bought her once, in one of his trips to 


298 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


New Orleans, and brought her up as a present to mother. 
She was about eight or nine years old, then. Father 
would never tell motlier wliat he gave for her; but, the 
other day, in looking over his old papers, we came across 
the bill of sale. He paid an extravagant sum for her, to 
be sure. I suppose, on account of her extraordinary 
beauty.” 

George sat with his back to Gassy, and did not see the 
absorbed expression of her countenance, as he was giving 
these details. 

At this point in the story, she touched his arm, and,, 
with a face perfectly white witli interest, said, “Do you 
know the names of the people lie bought her of?” 

“A man of the name of Simmons, 1 think, was the prin- 
cipal in the transaction. At least, I think that was the 
name on the bill of sale.” 

“0, my God !” said Gassy, and fell insensible on the 
floor of the cabin. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


299 


CHAPTER XLIIL 

RESULTS. 

ri'^ HE rest of our story is soon told. George Shelby sent 

I to Gassy the bill of sale of Eliza; whose date and 
name all corresponded M’ith her own knowledge of 
facts, and left no doubt upon her mind as to the identity 
of her child. It remained now only for her to trace out the 
path of the fugitives. 

Madame de Thoux and she, thus drawn together by the 
singular coincidence of their fortunes, proceeded immedi- 
ately to Canada, and began a tour of inquiry among the 
stations, where the numerous fugitives from slavery are 
located. At Amherstberg they found the missionary with 
whom George and Eliza had taken shelter, on their first 
arrival in Canada; and through him were enabled to trace 
the family to Montreal. 

George and Eliza had now been five years free. George 
had found constant occupation in the shop of a worthy 
machinist, where he had been earning a competent sup- 
port for his family, which, in the meantime, had been 
increased by the addition of another daughter. 

Little Harry — a fine bright boy — had been put to a 
good school, and was making rapid proficiency in knowl- 
edge. 


300 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


The worthy pastor of the station, in Amherstberg. 
where George had first landed, was so much interested in 
the statements of Madame de Thoux and Gassy, that he 
yielded to the solicitations of the former, to accompany 
them to Montreal, in their search. 

The scene now changes to a small, neat tenement, in 
the outskirts of Montreal. 

“Come, George,’’ said Eliza, “you’ve been gone all day. 
Do put doAvn that book, and let’s talk, while I’m getting 
tea, — do.” 

And little Eliza seconds the effort, by toddling up to 
her father, and trying to pull the book out of his hand. 

“0, you little witch !” says George, yielding. 

“That’s right,” says Eliza, as she begins to cut a loaf of 
bread. 

“Harry, my boy, how did you come on in that sum, 
to-day?” says George, as he laid his hand on his son’s 
head. 

“I did it, every bit of it, myself, father; and nobody 
helped me !” 

“That’s right,” says his father; “depend on yourself, 
my son. You have a better chance than ever your poor 
father had.” 

At this moment, there is a rap at the door; and Eliza 
goes and opens it. The delighted — “Why! — this you?” — 
calls up her husband; and the good pastor of Amherstberg 
is welcomed. There are two women with him, and Eliza 
asks them to sit down. 

The honest pastor had arranged a little programme for 
the occasion and had prepared his speech, but Madame 
de Thoux upset the whole plan, by throwing her arms 


Life Among the Lowly. 


301 



“Depend on yourself, my son.” 


have carried on her part very well, had not little Eliza 
suddenly appeared before her in exact shape and form, 
every outline and curl, just as her daughter was when she 


302 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


saw her last. The little thing peered up in her face; and 
Cassy caught her up in her arms, pressed her to her 
bosom, saying, what at the moment she really believed, 
‘‘Darling, I’m your mother!” 

The good pastor, at last, succeeded in getting every- 
body quiet, and delivering the speech with Avhich he had 
intended to open the exercises; and then they knelt to- 
gether, and the good man prayed. 

In two or three days, such a change has passed over 
Cassy, that our readers would scarcely know her. The 
little one was a bond between mother and daughter, and 
Eliza’s steady, consistent piety made her a proper guide 
for the shattered and wearied mind of her mother. Cassy 
yielded at once, and with her whole soul, to every good 
influence, and became a devout and tender Christian. 

After a day or two, Madame de Thoux told her brother 
more particularly of her aflairs. The death of her hus- 
band had left her an ample fortune, which she generously 
offered to share with the family. When she asked George 
what way she could best apply it for him, he answered, 
“Give me an education, Emily; that has always been my 
heart’s desire. Then, I can do all the rest.” 

On mature deliberation, it was decided that the whole 
family should go, for some years, to France; whither they 
sailed, carrying Emmeline with them. 

The good looks of the latter won the affection of the first 
mate of the vessel; and, shortly after entering the port, 
she became his wdfe. 

George remained four A^ears at a French university, and, 
applying himself Avith an unintermitted zeal, obtained a 
very thorough education. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


30 .“^ 

Political troubles in France, at last, led the family again 
to seek an asylum in this country. 

A little later, George, with his wife, children, sister and 
mother, embarked for Africa, and finally settled in Iji- 
beria, where he became a teacher of Christianity. Some 
inquiries set on foot by Madame de Thoux resulted in the 
discovery of Cassy’s son. Being a young man of energy, 
he had escaped, some years before his mother, and had 
been received and educated by friends of the oppressed in 
the Xorth. lie, too, sailed for Africa, and eventually 
joined his mother and sister. 

iliss Ophelia took Topsy home to Vermont with her, , 
and the child rapidly grew in favor with the family and- 
neighborhood. At the age of womanhood she became a 
member of the Christian church in the place; and showed 
so much intelligence, activity, and zeal, and desire to do 
good in the world, that she was at last sent as a missionary 
to one of the stations in Africa. 


304 


Uncle Toni’s Cabin; or 


CHAPTEE XLIV. 

THE LIBERATOR. 

G EOEGE SHELBY had written to his mother stating 
the day that she might expect him home. Of 
the death scene of his old friend he had not 
the heart to write. 

Mrs. Shelby was seated in her comfortable parlor, where 
a cheerful fire was dispelling the chill of the late autumn 
evening. A supper-table, glittering with plate and cut 
glass, was set out, on whose arrangements our former 
friend, old Chloe, was presiding. 

Arrayed in a new calico dress, with clean, white apron, 
and high, well-starched turban, her black polished face 
glowing with satisfaction, she lingered, with needless 
punctiliousness, around the arrangements of the table, 
merely as an excuse for talking a little to her mistress. 

“Laws, now! won’t it look natural to him?” she said. 
“Thar, — I set his plate just whar he likes it, — round by 
the fire. Mas’r George allers wants de warm seat. 0, go 
way! — why didn’t Sally get out de best tea-pot, — de little 
new one, Mas’r George got for Missis, Christmas? I’ll 
have it out! And Missis has heard from Mas’r George?” 
she said, inquiringly. 


Life Among the Lowly. 


305 


‘‘Yes, Chloe; but only a line, just to say he would he 
home to-night, if he could, — that’s all.” 

“Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout my old man, s’pose?” said 
Chloe, still fidgeting with the tea-cups. 

“No, he didn’t. He did not speak of anything, Chloe. 
He said he would tell all, when he got home.” 

“Jes like Mas’r George, — he’s allers so ferce for tollin’ 
everything hisself. I allers minded dat ar in Mas’r 
George. Don’t see, for my part, how wLite people gen’lly 
can bar to hev to write things much as they do, writin’ ’s 
such slow, oneasy kind o’ work.” 

Mrs. Shelby smiled. 

“I’m a thinkin’ my old man won’t know de boys and 
de baby. Lor’! she’s de biggest gal, now, — good she is, 
too, and peart, Polly is. She’s out to the house, now, 
watchin’ de hoe-cake. I’s got jist de very pattern my old 
man liked so much, a bakin’. Jist sich as I gin him the 
mornin’ he was took off. Lord bless us ! how I felt, dat ar 
morning I” 

Mrs. Shelby sighed, and felt a heavy w'eight on her 
heart, at this allusion. She had felt uneasy, ever since 
she received her son’s letter, lest something should prove 
to be hidden behind the veil of silence which he had 
drawn. 

“Missis has got dem bills?” said Chloe, anxiously 

“Yes, Chloe.” 

“Cause I wants to show my old man dem very bills de 
perfectioner gave me. ‘And,’ says he, ‘Chloe, I wish 
you’d stay longer.’ ‘Thank you, Mas’r,’ says I, ‘I would, 
only my old man’s coming home, and Missis, — she can’t 
20 


306 


Uncle Tom's Cabin; or 


do without me no longer.’ There ’s jist what I telled him. 
Berry nice man, dat Mas’r Jones was.” 

Chloe had pertinaciously insisted that the very bills in 
which her wages had been paid should be preserved, to 
show to her husband, in memorial of her capability. And 
Mrs. Shelby had readily consented to humor her in the re- 
quest. 

“He won’t know Polly, — my old man won’t. Laws, it’s 
five year since they tuck him! She was a baby den, — 
couldn’t but jist stand. Remember how tickled he used 
to be, cause slie would keep a failin’ over, when she sot 
out to walk. Laws a me!” 

The rattling of wheels now was heard. 

“Mas’r George!” said Aunt Chloe, starting to the win- 
dow. 

^Irs. Shelby ran to tlie entry door, and was folded in the 
arms of her son. Aunt Chloe stood anxiously straining 
her eyes out into the darkness. 

“0, poor Aunt Chloe!'’ said George, stopping compas- 
sionately, and taking her liard, black hand between botli 
his; “I’d liave given all my fortune to have brought him 
with me, but he’s gone to a better country.” 

There was a passionate exclamation from Mrs. Shelby, 
but Aunt Chloe said nothing. 

The party entered the supper-room. The mone}^ of 
which Chloe was so proud, was still lying on the table. 

“Thar,” said she, gathering it up, and holding it, with 
a trembling hand, to her mistress, “don’t never want to 
see nor hear on’t again. Jist as I knew’t would be, — sold, 
and murdered on dem ar’ old plantations!” 

Chloe turned, and was walking proudly out of the room. 



Life Among the Lowly. 307 

l^Irs. Slielby followed her softly, and took one of her hands, 
drew her down into a chair, and sat down by her. 

“My poor, good Chloe!” said she. 

Chloe leaned her head on Jier mistress’ shoulder, and 
sobbed out, “'O Missis ! ’sense me, mv heart’s broke, — dat’s 
all!” 


We don’t want to be no freer than we are.” 

“I know it is,” said Mrs. Shelby, as her tears fell fast; 
“and I cannot heal it, but Jesus can. He healeth the 
broken hearted, and bindeth up their wounds.” 

There was silence for some time, and all wept together. 
At last, George, sitting down beside the mourner, took her 


308 


Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or 


hand, and, with simple pathos, repeated the triumphant 
scene of her husband’s death, and his last message of 
love. 

About a month after this, one morning, all the servants 
of the Shelby estate were convened together in the great 
hall that ran through the house, to hear a few words from 
their young master. 

To the surprise of all, he appeared among them with a 
bundle of papers in his hand, containing a certificate of 
freedom to every one on the place, which he read succes- 
sively, and presented, amid the sobs and tears and shouts 
of all present. 

Many, however, pressed around him, earnestly begging 
him not to send them away; and, with anxious faces, ten- 
dering back their free papers. 

“We don’t want to be no freer than we are. We’s alters 
had all we wanted. We don’t want to leave de ole place, 
and Mas’r and Missis, and de rest!” 

“My good friends,” said George, as soon as he could get 
a silence, “there’ll be no need for you to leave me. The 
place Avants as many hands io work it as it did before. 
We need the same about the house that we did before. 
But you are now free men and free women. I shall pay 
you wages for your work, such as we shall agree on. The 
advantage is, that in case of my getting in debt, or dying, 
— things that might happen, — you cannot now be taken up 
and sold. I expect to carry on the estate, and to teach 
you what, perhaps, it will take you some time to learn, — 
how to use the rights I give you as free men and women. 
I expect you to be good, and willing to learn; and I trust 


Life Among the Lowly. 


309 


in God that I shall be faithful, and willing to teach. And 
now, my friends, look up, and thank God for the blessing 
of freedom.” 

An aged, patriarchal negro, who had grown gray and 
blind on the estate, now rose, and lifting his trembling 
hand, said, “Let us give thanks unto the Lord!” As all 
kneeled by one consent, a more touching and hearty Te 
Deum never ascended to heaven, though borne on the peal 
of organ, bell and cannon, than came from that honest 
old heart. 

“One thing more,” said George, as he stopped the con- 
gratulations of the throng; “you all remember our good 
old Uncle Tom?” 

George here gave a short narration of the scene of his 
death, and of his loving farewell to all on the place, and 
added, 

“It was on his grave, my friends, that I resolved, before 
God, that I would never own another slave, while it was 
possible to free him; that nobody, through me, should 
ever run the risk of being parted from home and friends, 
and dying on a lonely plantation, as he died. So, when 
you rejoice in your freedom, think that you owe it to that 
good old soul, and pay it back in kindness to his wife and 
children. Think of your freedom, every time you see 
Uncle Tom’s Cabin; and let it be a memorial to put you 
all in mind to follow in his steps, and be as honest and 
faithful and Christian as he was.” 




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ALTEMUS’ 


Young People’s Library. 


Price, 50 Cents Each. 


RO PINSON CRUSOE : His Life and Strange Surprising 
Adventures. With 70 beautiful illustrations by Walter 
Paget. Arranged for young readers. 

“There exists no work, either of instruction or entertainment, 
which has been more generally read, and universally admired.” 
— Scoff. 

ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. With 42 
illustrations by John d'enniel. 

“ This is Carroll’s immortal story.” — Aflicnictun, 

“The most delightful of children s stories. Elegant and deli- 
cious nonsense .” — Saf unlay Kez'ietv. 

THROUCxH THE LOOKINO GLASS AND WHAT 
AI>ICE FOUND THERIC. (A companion to Alice in 
Wonderland.) With 50 illustrations by John 'I'enniel. 

“ Not a whit inferior to its predecessor in grand extravagance of 
imagination, and delicious allegorical nonsense.” — Quarfcrly 
Jlcuino. 

HUNYAN’S ITLGRIM’S PROGRESS. With 50 full-page 
and text illustrations. 

Pilgrim’s Progress is the most popular story book in the 
world. With the exception of the Bible it has been translated into 
more languages than any other book ever printed. 

A CHILD’S STORY OF THE BIBLE. With 72 full-page 
illustrations. 

Tells in simjde language and in a form fitted for the hands of 
the younger members of the Christian flock, the talc of Cod’s 
dealings wi h his Chosen People under the Old Dispensation, 
with its fore.shadowings of the coming of that Messiah who was 
to make all mankind one fold under one Shepherd. 


2 


ALTEMUS’ YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIPRARY. 


A CHILD’S LIFE OF CHRIST. With 49 illustrations. 

(iod has implanted in the infant’s heart a desire to hear of Jesus, 
and children are early attracted and sweetly riveted by the won- 
derful Story of the Master from the Manger to the Throne. 

In this little book we have brought together from Scripture every 
incident, expression and description within the verge of their com- 
prehension, in the effort to weave them into a memorial garland of 
their .Saviour. 

THE FABLES OF >ESOP. Compiled from the best ac- 
cepted sources. With 62 illustrations. 

The fables of /Esop are among the very earliest compositions of 
this kind, and probably have never been surpassed for point and 
brevity, as well as for the practical good sense they display. In 
their grotesque grace, in their quaint humor, in their trust in the 
simpler virtues, in their insight into the cruder vices, in their inno- 
cence of the fact of sex, Aisop’s P'ables are as little children — and 
for that reason will ever find a home in the heaven of little chil- 
dren’s souls. 

T'HE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON, or the Adventures of 
a Shipwrecked F'amily on an Uninhabited Island. With 
50 illustrations. 

A remarkable tale of adventure that will interest the boys and 
girls. The father of the family tells the tale and the vicissitudes 
through which he and his wife and children pass, the wonderful 
discoveries they make, and the dangers they encounter. It is a 
standard work of adventure that has the favor of all who have 
read it. 

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS AND THE DISCOVERY 
OF AMERICA. With 70 illustrations. 

It is the duty of every American lad to know the story of Chris- 
topher Columbus. In this book is depicted the story of his life 
and struggles ; of his persistent solicitations at the courts of Eu- 
rope, and his contemptuous receptions by the learned Geographical 
Councils, until his final employment by Queen Isabella. Records 
the day-by-day journey ings while he was pursuing' his aim and his 
perilous way over the shoreless ocean, until he “gave to Spain a 
New World.” Shows his progress through Spain on the occasion 
of his first return, when he was received with rapturous demon- 
strations and more than regal homage. His displacement by the 


ALTEMUS’ YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIBRARY. 


3 


Odjeas, Ovandos and Bobadilas ; his last return in chains, and the 
story of his death in poverty and neglect. 

thp: story of exploration and discovery 

IN AFRICA. With 8o illustrations. 

Records the adventures, privations, sufferings, trials, dangers 
and discoveries in developing the “Dark Continent,’’ from the 
early days of Bruce and Mungo Park down to Livingstone and 
Stanley and the heroes of our own times. 

The reader becomes carried away by conflicting emotions ol 
wonder and sympathy, and feels compelled to pursue the story, 
which he cannot lay down. No present can be more acceptable 
. than such a volume as this, where courage, intrepidity, resource 
and devotion are so pleasantly mingled. It is very fully illustra- 
ted with pictures worthy of the book. 

GULLIVER’S TRAVELS INTO SOME REMOTE RE- 
GIONS OF THE WORLD. With 50 illustrations. 

In description, even of the most common-place things, his power 
is often perfectly marvellous. Macau'ay says of Svvikt: “ Under 
a plain garb and ungainly deportment were concealed some of the 
choicest gifts that ever have been bestowed on any of the children 
of men — rare powers of observation, brilliant art, grotesque inven- 
tion, humor of the mo;t austere flavor, yet exquisitely delicious, 
eloquence singularly pure, manly and perspicuous.’’ 

MOTHER GOOSE’S RHYMES, JINGLES AND FAIRY 
TALES. With 300 illustrations. ’ 

“ In this edition an excellent choice has been made from the 
standard fiction of the little ones. The abundant pictures are well- 
drawn and graceful, the effect frequently striking and always deco- 
rative.’’ — C7-itic. 

“ Only to see the book is to wish to give it to every child one 
knows. ’ ’ — Queen. 

LIVES OF THE PRESIDENTS OF THE UNITED 
STATES. Compiled from authoritative sources. With 
portraits of the Presidents ; and also of the unsuccessful 
candidates for the office; as well as the ablest of the 
Cabinet officers. 

This book should be in every home and school library. It tells, 
in an impartial way, the story of the political history of the United 
States, from the first Constitutional convention to the last Presi- 


4 


ALTEMUS’ YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIBRARY. 


denlial nominations, it is just the hook for intelligent boys, and it 
will help to make them intelligent and patriotic citizens. 

THE STORY OF ADVEN'l'URE I\ THE FROZEN 
SEA. With 70 illustrations. Compiled from authorized 
sources. 

We here have brought together the records of the attempts to 
reach the North Pole. Our object being to recall the stories of the 
early voyagers, and to narrate the recent efforts of gallant adven- 
turers of various nationalities to cross the “ unknown and inacces- 
ible ” threshold ; and to show how much can be accomplished by 
indomitable pluck and steady perseverance. Portraits and numer- 
ous illustrfitions help the narration. 

ILLUSTRATED NAd’URAL HISTORY. By the Rev. 
J. G. Wood. With 80 illustrations. 

Wood’s Natural History needs no commendation. Its author 
has done more than any other writer to popularize the study. His 
work is known and admired overall the civilized world. The sales 
of his works in England and America have been enormous. The 
illustrations in this edition are entirely new, striking and life-like. 

A CHILD’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. By Charles 
Dickens. With 50 illustrations. 

Dickens grew tired of listening to his children memorizing the 
old fashioned twaddle that went under the name of English his- 
tory. He thereupon wrote a book, in his own peculiarly happy 
style, primarily for the educational advantage of his own children, 
but w'as prevailed upon to publish the work, and make its use gen- 
eral. Its success was instantaneous and abiding. 

'BLACK BEAUTY ; T'he Autobiography of a Horse. By 
Anna Sewell. With 50 illustrations 

This NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITION is Sure to command attention. 
Wherever children are, whether boys or girls, there this Autobiog- 
raphy should be. It inculcates habits of kindness to all members 
of the animal creation. The literary merit of the book is excellent. 

THE ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS. With 
50 illustrations. Contains the most favorably known of 
the stories. 

The text is somewhat abridged and edited for the young. It 
/ )rms an excellent introduction to those immortal tales which have 
helped so long to keep the weary world young. 


ALTEMUS’ YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIBRARY. 


5 


ANDERSEN’S FAIRY TALES, By Hans Christian An- 
dersen. With 77 illustrations. 

The spirit of high moral teaching, and the delicacy of sentiment, 
feeling and expression that pervade these tales make these won- 
derful creations not only attractive to the young, but equally accept- 
able to those of mature years, who are able to understand their 
real significance and appreciate the depth of their meaning. 

GRIMM’S FAIRY TALES. With 50 illustrations. 

These tales of the Brothers Grimm have carried their names into 
every household of the civilized world. 

The Tales are a wonderful collection, as interesting, from a lit- 
erary point of view, as they are delightful as stories. 

GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR; A History for Youth. By 
Nathaniel Hawthorne. With 60 illustrations. 

The story of America from the landing of the Puritans to the 
acknc/wledgnient without reserve of the Independence ok the 
United States, told with all the elegance, simplicity, grace, clear- 
ness and force for which Hawthorne is conspicuously noted. 

FLOWER FABLES. By Louisa May Alcott. With colored 
and plain illustrations. 

A series of very interesting fairy tales by the most charming of 
American story-tellers. 

AUNT MARTHA’S CORNER CUPBOARD. By Mary 
and Elizabeth Kirby. With 60 illustrations. 

Stories about Tea, Coffee, Sugar, Rice and Chinaware, and 
other accessories of the well-kept Cupboard. A book full of in- 
terest for all the girls and many of the boys. 

WATFiR-BABIES ; A Fairy Tale for a Land-Baby. By 
Charles Kingsley. With 94 illustrations. 

“ Come read me my riddle, each good little man ; 

If you cannot read it, no grown-up folk can.” 

BATT'LES OF THE WAR FOR INDEPENDENCE. By 
Prescott Holmes. With 70 illustrations. 

A graphic and full history of the Rebellion of the American Col- 
onies from the yoke and oppression of England, with the causes 


6 


ALTEMUS’ YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIBRARY. 


that led thereto, and including an account of the second war with 
Great Britain, and the War with Mexico. 

BATTLES OF THE WAR FOR THE UNION. By 
Prescott Holmes. With 8o illustrations. 

A correct and impartial account of the greatest civil war in the 
annals of history. Both of these histories of American wars !’re 
a necessary part of the education of all intelligent American boys 
and girls. 

YOUNG PEOPLE’S HISTORY OF THE WAR WITH 
SPAIN. By Prescott Holmes. With 89 illustrations. 

This history of our war with Spain, in 1898, presents in a plain, 
easy style the splendid achievements of our army and navy, and 
the prominent figures that came into the public view during that 
period. Its glowing descriptions, wealth of anecdote, accuracy • f 
statement and profusion of illustration make it a most desirable 
gift book for young readers. 

HEROES OF THE UNITED STATES NAVY. By 
Hartwell James. With 65 illustrations. 

The story of our navy is one of the most brilliant pages in the 
w .rld’s history. The sketches and exploits contained in this vol- 
ume cover our entire naval history from the days of the honest, 
rough sailors of Revolutionary times, with their cutlasses and 
boarding pikes, to the brief war of 1898, when our superbly ap- 
pointed warships destroyed Spain’s proud cruisers by the merci- 
less accuracy of their fire. 

MILITARY HEROES OF THE UNITED STATES. 
By Hartwell James. With 97 illustrations. 

In this volume the brave lives and heroic deeds of our military 
heroes, from Paul Revere to Lawton, are told in the most captiva- 
ting manner. The material for the work has been gathered from 
the North and the Souih alike, i'hc volume presents all the im- 
portant facts in a manner enabling the young people of our united 
and prosperous land to easily become familiar with the command- 
ing figures that have arisen in our military history. 

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN ; or Life Among the Lowly. By 
Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, With 90 illustrations. 


ALTEMUS’ YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIBRARY. 


7 


The unfailing interest in the famous old st >ry suggested the need 
of an edition specially prepared for young readers, and elaborately 
illustrated. This edition completely fills that want. 

SEA KINGS AND NAVAL HEROES. By Hartwell 
James. With 50 illustrations. 

The most famous sea battles of the world with sketches of the 
lives, enterprises and achievements of men who have become fam- 
ous in naval history. They are stories of brave lives in times of 
trial and danger, charmingly told for young people. 

POOR BOYS’ CHANCES. By John Habberton. With 
50 illustrations. 

There is a fascination about the writings of the author of 
“ Helen’s Babies,” from which none can escape. In this charm- 
ing volume, Mr. Habberton tells the boys of America how they 
can attain the highest positions in the land, without the struggles 
and privations endured by poor boys who rose to eminence and 
fame in former limes. 

ROMULUS, the Founder of Rome. By Jacob Abbott. 
With 49 illustrations. 

In a plain and connected narrative, the author tells the stories 
of the founder of Rome and his great ancestor, /Kneas. 'I'hese 
are of nect.ssity somewhat legendary in character but aie pre 
sented preci-.ely as they have come down to us from ancient times. 
They are prefaced by an account of the life and inventions of Cad 
mus, the “ Father of the Alphaliet,” as he is often called. 

CYRUS THE GREAT, the Founder of the Persian Empire. 
By Jacob Abbott. With 40 illustrations. 

For nineteen hundred years, the story of the founder of the an- 
cient Persian empire has been read by every generation of man 
kind. The story of the life and actions of Cyrus, as lold by tlie 
author, presents vivid pictures of the magnificence of a monarchy 
that rose about five hundred years before the Christian era, and 
rolled on in undisturbed magnitude and glory for many centuries. 

ADVh:NTURES IN TOYLAND. By Edith King Hull. 
With 70 illustrations by Alice B. Woodward. 

The sayings and doings of the dwellers in toyland, related by 
one of them to a dear little girl. It is a delightful book for chil- 
dren, and admirably illustrated. 


8 


ALTEMUS’ YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIBRARY. 


DARIUS THE GREAT, King of the Medes and Persians. 
By Jacob Abbott. With 34 illustrations. 

No great exploits marked the career of this monarch, who was 
at one lime the absolute sovereign of nearly one-half of the world. 
He reached his high position by a stratagem, and left behind him 
no strong impressions of personal character, yet, the history of his 
life and reign should be read along with those of Cyrus, Ccesar, 
Hannibal and Alexander. 

XERXES THE GRE.\T, King of Persia. By Jacob Ab- 
bott. With 39 illustrations. 

For ages the name of Xerxes has been associated in the minds 
of men with the idea of the highest attainable human magnificence 
and grandeur. He was the sovereign of the ancient Persian em- 
pire at the height of its prosperity and power. The invasion of 
Greece by the Persian hordes, the battle of Thermopylae, the burn- 
ing of Athens, and the defeat of the Persian galleys at Salamis are 
chapters of thrilling interest. 

THE ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE. By Miss 
Mulock, author of John Halifax, Gentleman, etc. With 
18 illustrations. 

One of the best of Miss Murlock’s charming stories for children. 
All the situations are amusing and are sure to please youthful 
readers. 

ALEXANDER THE GREAT, King of Macedon. By 
Jacob Abbott. With 51 illustrations. 

Born heir to the throne of Macedon, a country on the confines 
of Europe and Asia, Alexander crowded into a brief career of 
twelve years a brilliant series of exploits. The readers of to-day 
will find pleasure and profit in the history of Alexander the Great, 
a potentate before whom ambassadors and princes from nearly all 
the nations of the earth bowed in humility. 

PYRRHUS, King of Epirus. By Jacob Abbott. With 45 
illustrations. 

The story of Pyrrhus is one of the ancient narratives which has 
been told and retold for many centuries in the literature, eloquence 
and ])oelry of all civilized nations. While possessed of extraordi 
nary ability as a military leader, Pyrrhus actually accomplished 
nothing, but did mischief on a gigantic scale. He was naturally 


ALTEMUS’ YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIBRARY. 


9 


of a noble and generous spirit, but only succeded in perpetrating 
crimes against the peace and welfare of mankind. 

HANNIBAT., the Carthaginian. By Jacob Abbott. With 
37 illustrations. 

Hannibal’s distinction as a warrior was gained during the des- 
perate contests between Rome and Carthage, known as the Punic 
wars. Entering the scene when his country was engaged in peace- 
ful traffic with the various countries of the known world, he turned 
its energies into military aggression, conquest and war, becoming 
himself one of the greatest military heroes the world has ever 
known. 

MIXED PICKLES. By Mrs. E. M. Field. With 31 illus- 
trations by T. Pym. 

A remarkably entertaining story for young people. The reader 
is introduced to a charming little girl whose mishaps while trying 
to do good are very appropriately termed “ Mixed Pickles.” 

JULIUS C.^SAR, the Roman Conqueror. By Jacob Ab- 
bott. With 44 illustrations. 

The life and actions of Julius Ctesar embrace a period in Roman 
history beginning with the civil wars of Marius and Sylla and end- 
ing with the tragic deaih of Ctesar Imperator. The work is an 
accurate historical account of the life and times of one of the great 
military figures in history, in fact, it is history itself, and as such is 
especially commended to the readers of the present generation. 

ALFRED THE GREAT, of England. By Jacob Abbott. 
With 40 illustrations. 

In a certain sense, Alfred appears in history as the founder of 
the British monarchy : his predecessors having governed more like 
savage chieftains than English kings. The work has a special 
value for young readers, for the character of Alfred was that of an 
honest, conscientious and far-seeing statesman. The romantic 
story of Godwin furnishes the concluding chapter of the volume. 

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, of England. By Jacob 
Abbott. With 43 illustrations. 

The life and times of William of Normandy have always been a 
fruitful theme for the historian. War and pillage and conquest 
were at least a part of the everyday business of men in both Eng- 


lo 


ALTEMUS* YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIBRARY. 


land and France ; and the story of William as told by the authoi 
of this volume makes some of the most fascinating pages in his- 
tory. It is especially delightful to young readers. 

Hl^RNANDO COR'l'EZ, the Conqueror of Mexico. By 
Jacob Abbott. With 30 illustrations. 

In this volume the author gives vivid pictures of the wild and 
adventurous career of Cortez and his companions in the conquest 
of Mexico. Many good motives were united with those of ques- 
tionable character, in the prosecution of his enterprise, but in 
those days it was a matter of national ambition to enlarge the 
boundaries of nations and to extend their commerce at any cost. 
The career of Cortez is one of absorbing interest. 

THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE. By Miss Mulock. With 
24 illustrations. 

The author styles it “A Parable for Old and Young.” It is in her 
happiest vein and delightfully interesting, especially to youthful 
readers. 

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. By Jacob Abbott. With 
45 illustrations. 

The story of Mary Stuart holds a prominent place in the present 
series of historical narrations. It has had many tellings, for the 
melancholy story of the unfortunate queen has always held a high 
place in the estimation of successive generations of readers. Her 
story is full of romance and pathos, and the reader is carried along 
by conflicting emotions of wonder and sympathy. 

QUEEN ELIZABETH, of England. By Jacob Abbott. 
With 49 illustrations. 

In strong contrast to the story of Mary, Queen of Scots, is that 
of Elizabeth, Queen of England. They were cousins, yet im- 
placable foes. Elizabeth’s reign was in many ways a glorious one, 
and her successes gained her the applause of the world. The 
stirring tales of Drake, Hawkins and other famous mariners of 
her lime have been incorporated into the story of Elizabeth’s life 
and reign. 

KING CHARLES THE FIRST, of England. By Jacob 
Abbott. With 41 illustrations. 

The well-known figures in the stormy reign of Charles I. are 
brought forward in this narrative of his life and times. It is his- 
tory told in the most fascinating manner, and embraces the early 


ALTEMUS’ YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIBRARY. 


II 


life of Charles ; the court of James I. ; struggles between Charles 
and the Parliament; the Civil war; the trial and execution of the 
king. The narrative is impartial and holds the attention of the 
reader. . 

KING CHARLES THE SECOND, of England. By Jacob 
Abbott. With 38 illustrations. 

Beginning with his infancy, the life of the “ Merry Monarch ” 
is related in the author’s inimitable style. His reign was signal- 
ized by many disastrous events, besides those that related to his 
personal troubles and embarrassments. There were unfortunate 
wars ; naval defeats ; dangerous and disgraceful plots and con- 
spiracies. Trobule sat very lightly on the shoulders of Charles II., 
however, and the cares of state were easily forgotten in the society 
of his court and dogs. 

THE SLEEPY KING. By Aubrey Hopwood and Seymour 
Hicks. With 77 illustrations by Maud Trelawney. 

A charmingly-told Fairy Tale, full of delight and entertain- 
ment. The illustrations are original and striking, adding greatly 
to the interest of the text. 

MARIA ANTOINETTE, Queen of France. By John S. C. 
Abbott. With 42 illustrations. 

The tragedy of Maria Antoinette is one of the most mournful in 
the history of the world. “ Her beauty dazzled the whole king- 
dom,” says Lamartine. Her lofty and unbending spirit under 
unspeakable indignities and atrocities, enlists and holds the sympa- 
thies of the readers of to-day, as it has don.; in the past. 

M.VDAME ROLAND, A Heroine of the French Revolution. 
By Jacob Abbott. With 42 illustrations. 

The French Revolution developed few, if any characters more 
worthy of notice than that of Madame Roland. The absence of 
playmates, in her youth, inspired her with an insatiate thirst for 
knowledge, and books became her constant companions in every 
unoccupied hour. .She fell a martyr to the tyrants of the PTench 
Revolution, but left behind her a career full of instruction that 
never fails to impress itself upon the reader. 

JOSEPHINE, Empress of France. By Jacob Abbott. AVhth 
40 illustrations. 


5.0-J7 51S 

c } 0 S 

12 ALTEMUS’ YOUNG PEOPLE’S LIBRARY. 


Maria Antoinette beheld the dawn of the French Revolution ; 
Mad line Roland perished under the lurid glare of its high noon ; 
Josephine saw it fade into darkness. She has been called the 
“ Star of Napoleon;” and it is certain that she added luster to 
his brilliance, and that her peisuasive influence was ofien exerted 
to win a friend or disarm an adversary. The lives of the Empress 
Josephine, of Maria Antoinette, and of Madame Roland are 
especially commended to young lady readers. 

TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. By Charles and Mary 
Lamb. With 8o illustrations. 

The text is .somewhat abridged and edited for young people, but 
a clear and definite outline of each play is presented. Such episodes 
or incidental sketches of character as are not absolutely necessary 
to the development of the tales are omitted, while the many moral 
lessons that lie in Shakespeare’s plays and make them valuable in 
the training of the young are retained. The book is winning, help- 
ful and an effectual guide to the “inner shrine” of the great 
dramatist. 

MAKERS OF AMERICA. By Hartwell James. With 75 
illustrations. 

This volume contains attractive and suggestive sketches of the 
lives and deeds of rnen who illustrated some special phase in the 
])olitical, religious or .social lif* of our country, from its settlement 
10 the close of the eighteenth century. It affords an ojip irtunity 
for young readers to become easily familiar with these characters 
and their historical relations to the building of our Republic. An 
account of the discovery of America prefaces the work. 

A WONDER BOOK FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. By 
Nathaniel Hawthorne. With 50 illustrations. 

In this volume the genius of Hawthorne has shaped anew 
wonder tales that have been hallowed by an antiquity of two or 
three thousand years. Seeming “ never to have been made ” they 
are legitimate subjects for every age to clothe with its own fancy 
as to manners and sentiment, and its own views of morality. The 
volume has a cha'in fo' old and young alike, for the author has 
not thought It necessary to “ write downward ” in order to meet 
the cumpreheusiou of children. 









I 




